


Sixth Of His Name

by Th3W4nd3r1ng0n3



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark Dany probably, Def Dark Arya, Dubious Consent, F/M, Great Lord Bronn cuz he deserves it, I dunno where I'm going with this, Political Alliances, Scheming Sansa, Scheming Tyrion, Shirtless Duels, Slightly Dark Jon?, Smut, The Targaryen Dynasty is restored, They just did my boy Jon so dirty, Voyeurism, Yes there's sex on this mess too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-03-13 11:49:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18940324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Th3W4nd3r1ng0n3/pseuds/Th3W4nd3r1ng0n3
Summary: King's Landing has burned, the Red Keep lies in ruins and the people of Westeros huddle in fear as her Majesty's foreign legions lay prepared to slaughter those foolish enough to oppose the new world she intends to build.It is in these conditions that Jon Snow accepts his identity as Aegon Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne and marries his Aunt, Daenerys, First of her Name, half out of love and half in an attempt to appease her fiery tendencies.That is how the reign of Aegon, Sixth of his Name, begins.





	1. Queen of the Ashes

“We break the wheel _together_ ”

 

Those were her words, right out of her lips, to reshape the world with her, to be with her, that was what was being asked of him. And she uttered them with such sureness, such faith...or was it madness? Her amethyst eyes shined with something he couldn’t decipher anymore, Jon had once seen into them and was sure that he knew what was behind them, be it joy or be it sorrow. But whatever swirled in them now was beyond his understanding, a storm raging, there was love, hate, hope, despair, joy and madness all wrapped around inside a woman he knew he shouldn’t love but did so anyway.

 

The dagger felt cold against his hip, Tyrion’s words rang in his ears, heart pounding, breaking. His own grey eyes darted towards the Iron Throne, bathed in ash, all of this for a chair. A throne his by right, a throne he’s never wanted. Her gloved fingers cup his face, gently and desperately at the same time. There’s something feral in her eyes, something dangerous, he knows that she loves him, but now he realizes that it does neither of them any favors.

 

“Join me”

 

Daenerys Stormborn asks, begs, demands.

 

“Aye”

 

Jon Snow, Aegon, whatever he is breathes out, shakes and falls to his knees, overwhelmed by his own inability to do what he knows it’s necessary. He saw the children, the fire, the blood, ash raining upon a dead city. But gods, he can’t do it, he can’t do it, all gods, new and old ones, forgive him. Conflicting images clash behind his eyelids as he holds onto her waist, like a lost child. The charred corpse of a child holding onto what used to be her mother, Dany’s smile, the screech of a dragon airborne as it dives back down to deliver fire upon the city, her eyes looking up at him so lovingly as he moves against her in the ship’s cabin, the flash of Unsullied steel as throat after throat is slit, her lips on his, hushed whispers and little secrets shared in the warmth of a northern cave.

 

She is a conqueror and a lonely woman, the flash on fire and the death of hundreds of thousands and somehow still the scared, little girl afraid of awaking her brother’s inner dragon. He knows this, because he knows her better than anyone else, in those little moments when they were alone before he learned the truth about himself. The little moments where they could be just Jon and Dany, no war and no throne, the little moments when they could bare their hearts and souls to each other.

 

Jon knows this is one of those moments, knows it in the intensity of her gaze, the part that he can decipher at least. Right here, right now, she’s laying her true thoughts, her true intentions bare, be they right or wrong. She’s being honest, in both her vow to burn the world away so that a new one may usher forth and her earnest plea to join her.

 

And Jon finds, much to his own horror, that he can’t refuse. Even after all he’s seen, even after he's seen both her tender gaze towards him and cold hatred towards who she considers her enemies. Arya, Sansa and Bran flash through his mind in cruel succession, Tyrion’s words with them. He knows now what she’s capable off, what a dragon awoken means to the world and the people in it. The dagger is cold like a White Walker’s touch on his hip.

 

Gods he can’t-

 

Aegon holds onto her, confused, desperate, lost. He doesn’t know who he is or what he should do. Love, love is the death of duty and he can’t kill it to do the duty his mind tells him is necessary. And Daenerys knows she has won this battle of wills, knows she has him wrapped around her pale fingers, her fingers running over his dark mane as she smiles tiredly, but satisfied while Jon shivers and pants on his knees, overcome by dark emotion.

 

Gods please forgive him.

 

He’ll do it, he’ll be with her, he’ll...break the wheel, whatever that means anymore. A new world awaited and Jon was going to try and make it a world worth living. Perhaps...perhaps this was for the best. There are good noble things in her soul, he knows of them, maybe, just maybe, he could bring her out of this storm of madness in her eyes.

 

Maybe they could be heroes.

 

It’s like that how Grey Worm finds them as he marches into the ruined throne room.

 

His Dragon Queen, his Mhysa, sitting upon the throne he and the Unsullied have crossed the sea to win for her and Jon Snow on his knees just before her, holding her tightly as shadows danced behind his eyelids. Dany’s fingers lovingly intertwined in his untied mane, her eyes shining lilac in the darkness of the room eyeing her prize possessively, lips upturned into a smile both hungry and content.

 

That was how the reign of Aegon, Sixth of his Name, began.


	2. Queen's Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon tries to get Tyrion pardoned.

“No”

 

Her answer is tacit, final and regal, clear negative, the lilac in her eyes solid as steel in her determination on this matter. Jon tries to not visibly deflate, if she sees him budge, she’ll capitalize on it and then he’ll be in her palm again. He knew it was not going to be easy, but he had to try, for Tyrion’s sake, for their own sake and the sake of everyone not under her heel yet.

 

Aegon, Jon, whatever he is, sighs and steels himself. This is going to be but one of the many arguments he knows they’re going to have, he already lost the first of these fights of theirs, when he collapsed to her will in the ashen throne room. He couldn’t do that again, not so easily.

 

Even now those thoughts sounded like lies.

 

All he seems to do is give in to her, give in to her rage, give in to her claims, give in to her love. And despite loving her, Jon knows that he must take the difficult decisions sometimes, even if he can’t commit to the hardest choice. The conversation for Daenerys is over and she makes the matter clear by continuing her walk. The Bastard-turned-Targaryen shakes his head, half annoyed, half in despair.

 

He had a dwarf’s life to save.

 

“Dany-”

 

“I said no”

 

She parries him with words better than he could ever hope to do with a sword. The Queen is not looking at him anymore but staring at her back, he can tell her gaze is sealed into that hard grim expression of hers, a face between resignation and deep, cold hatred. She’s angry and feels betrayed and you don’t just betray the Dragon Queen and get away with it.

 

Varys would know.

 

Jon hurries his pace, trying to keep up with her and he continues to plead for her former’s Hand’s life.  It’s not an easy case to make, Tyrion’s treason is very obvious, he admits to it and the dwarf seems to strangely relish in the opportunity of facing death with his head held high just to spite the woman he used to so fiercely believe in.

 

There’s a wedge between Tyrion and Daenerys that Jon is sure will never heal. Both had expectations of each other, high ones, faith in what the other represented to them was a big part of their relationship. With their masks gone, there was nothing but bad blood and thinly veiled scorn. And still, the man who would be king had to try, if he couldn’t make Dany forgive now, he might never manage to stop her ever.

 

This is for his own sake as well, he has to know if she still believes in him.

 

Daenerys considers him, at the very least, harmless. Despite Grey Worm’s insistence and the gaze of her black-clad legions following him like shadows, she was adamant about not needing an escort in his presence. My betrothed can protect me just fine, she had said with a sort of giddy mirth unbefit to a woman usually so regal, something feral sparking behind her violet eyes as her War Master relented but continued to seethe as he appraised Aegon with a warning look.

 

The eunuch commander had never been quite the same after Missandei died, just like the Mother of Dragons. Where his rage had once been tempered and honed into battle, his wrath now seemed to seep out of every pore of his dark skin, blade forever ready to spill blood in the name of Daenerys, First of her Name.

 

Whatever rugged respect they had for each other was gone in the wake of what the Unsullied interpreted as weakness on Jon’s part and what the former King in the North interpreted as savagery on Grey Worm’s part.

 

As for Daenerys herself, her lover once again found himself unable to predict her behavior. One second she seemed to be a woman on the height of triumph, satisfied to have everything fall into place as she prepared for the coming wedding and coronation. The next second she seemed irate and scornful, a sullen rage burning in her heart with nothing to direct it to as she sat and seethed upon the ash-bathed Iron Throne of her ancestors. Right now she was clearly on the latter mood and Jon knew he had to pick his world carefully.

 

He might be the rightful heir, but it was clear to everyone in the city of who exactly held the reins. She had made sure of teaching them that lesson with Drogon. Another reminder, another pang of guilt, Aegon pushes it back to the far reaches of his mind as he attempts to focus on the task at hand, just like in battle. They walk side by side through the ruined Red Keep, if it can even be called that way. Three days have passed but the rain of ashes has not abated just yet, what stone has not been covered in grey lies blackened by the inferno of dragonfire.

 

Jon walks in a hurried pace, trying to keep up with the regal but quick footing of his bride-to-be. Daenerys is being stubborn, or perhaps he’s the stubborn one between them, either way she seems determined to outpace this particular argument. To find some way to distract him long enough for the matter to be dropped, the northerner fears. The Game of Thrones was never his thing, hell, he never had much need to participate in it. Ever since he took the Black his life had been nothing but war. War against the wildlings, against the dead, against the Boltons and the Lannisters, but war all the same. People said that he was like the Dragon Knight or the Sword of the Morning come again, best sword in Westeros and Jon could fight, it was the only thing the gods seemed to have blessed him with, the skill to rip men's souls from their bodies with a blade.

 

Intrigue did not suit the Bastard of Winterfell, as Lord Commander his failure to recognize the growing divide despite the pragmatism of his decisions earned him a knife in the heart, several in fact. Later, the required scheming had been handled by Sansa who acted like the silent hand ruling the North as he wore the crown. Once, shortly after his resurrection, Aegon thought that he could leave all the fighting behind. But now he recognized it as the idle dream of a foolish young boy. Thorne was right, his battles would never end.

 

And intrigue was a way of war that he would have to learn as well.

 

In a moment of daring, emboldened by the lack of Unsullied guards around, Jon grasps her arm, clad in the long sleeve of the black battle-dress she has taken a liking to. She looks back at him temporarily surprised as she finally stops and their gazes meet once again in a battle of wills, violet against grey.

 

“Hey” he urges, Dany offers him a look, an expectant look, a cold look, it may be hard to decipher what she thinks anymore but he can tell that this doesn’t cause her any amusement. Be careful with your words Snow, very careful. “Listen to me”

 

This time he speaks softer, cooing, demands will not get him anything from a Dragon, one does not demand things of Daenerys Targaryen. Her face hardens for a moment, intent on overcoming the challenge that his own eyes are representing, but then it softens, eyes warming up in contact with his own gaze. Love is death of duty, the death of reason and despite hating the thought of it, Jon knows that he can use it just as effectively as she wields his own love for her.

 

He’s winning in this particular battle, for now.

 

There’s a nervous pause as Jon tries to get his bearings back, juggling words inside his head, swallowing, licking his lips. Words, he’s never been good with words, but good words are what he needs. Dany is much better at this and she knows it, her tacit disinterest seemingly gone in favor of some kind of amused curiosity, layered with some sort of cold machination working behind her eyes. She looks at him curiously, tilting her head to the side with her pink lips softly upturned in quiet appreciation of her lover scrambling for arguments.

 

“Well?”

 

She presses.

 

The Queen has gone from ignoring him to toying him, which is marginally better, but Aegon has to make sure she doesn’t tire of this game to soon. There has to be some leverage, something that will benefit them-

 

“He’s the heir to the Rock”

 

She huffs, unimpressed.

 

“So he is, Castles are stone and new lords may rise to hold them, my love” Her words are calm and regal, perhaps even a bit amused. Talking like that, a bit as if he were a child as her gloved hand rises to cup his face lovingly, smirk falling to reveal the steely face of royal justice beneath. “We will find a suitable man to hold the West for us, a capable man, a **loyal** man” she almost spits.

 

Once again, her patience and interest seem to have come to an end and she moves to resume her walk. Tyrion’s lopsided grin flashes in his mind’s eye and Jon knows he’s not done yet, can’t be done.

 

He squeezes her arm softly urging her to stay, after a single moment of hesitation, taking a step forward, closing space. There’s a spark of excitement in her eyes as she moves her own hand to grasp at his arm. Despite his renewed acceptance of her, an occupied city and a coalition army camped inside of it are heavy work. He’s had the chance to remind his roving northmen of who’s actually still in charge of them and start organizing some form of help for the shell-shocked populace .They’ve had little time to mingle with each other as she convenes with Grey Worm and Akko, the new Bloodrider her Horde has elected as leader after the death Qhono in the Battle of Ice and Fire.

 

A fact he’s been secretly been thankful for. One could say that Jon has been delaying the inevitable, but right now he may need the very thing he has been avoiding with her for months now.

 

Her warmth, her love, her body.

 

He can feel her breath clashing with is as she presses herself close, a spark of life in eyes that have been lately consumed by sorrow or fury. Much to his own disturbance, he finds that he still desires her, all of her, despite how hard he has fought against it, in the name of honor and decency. The gods frown upon such unions, but they know how much he has missed her touch.

 

The fact that he’s accepted the wedding to take place does not mean he has adjusted to the idea of bedding his kin so easily.

 

But this is his chance.  

 

Focus.

 

“The Westerlands are full of rolling hills, caves and manned keeps. Armies not depleted by the wars” He whispers, close to her face, feeling dirty for using himself so brazenly to distract her from her rage, but realizing that it’s his only useful weapon against her. “They have reason to distrust us, to resent us, to fear us”

 

Her lips brush his, grinning against his mouth. She’s liking this, good. With renewed interest, Daenerys presses her body close to his as she takes his arm in hers and begins lead them to what he already knows must be the chambers she must be using, or any chambers really, whatever place is holding a bed.

 

He refocuses on the task at hand.

 

“They will kneel, the rest of the realms already march towards us to pledge their allegiance to the true queen. Fire and Blood will come to our enemies” The Breaker of Chains utters with utmost confidence, drunk on victory as she is. The bulk of the Lannister Army, Tywin’s pride lies executed, the Golden Company are ash. What damage can a few upstart lords from the westerlands do against her mighty armies?

 

Jon eyes her cautiously, measuring his words.

 

“The hills will make unsuitable terrain for your riders my Queen and your Unsullied are trained to defend fortresses, not take them. With so many places to hide, they’ll strike the flanks of such a great army with ease, especially one so unfamiliar with the terrain” The White Wolf tried to recall his childhood in Winterfell, remember Maester Luwin and the lessons he gave Bran on the courtyard as he and Robb practiced archery. Eddard Stark permitted his nephew-turned-bastard to be educated as his own children were. History, geography, warfare.

 

Aegon had, admittedly, not proven himself to be a prodigious commander in the field, like Tywin Lannister, Randyll Tarly or even his own brother Robb, he had defended Castle Black from the Wildling Hordes as best as he could, had been saved in Battle of the Bastards by the grace of Arryn lances and owed his victory over the True Enemy to a dagger wielded by his sister.

 

But of the two Targaryen’s remaining, it was him who had any sort of true knowledge over the nuances of warfare and how it was conducted. Daenerys may be the Conqueror reborn, but she had always delegated her wars to more capable lieutenants, generals and advisors; one had little use for petty strategies when armies broke with dragonflame.

 

And speaking of dragonflame…

 

“If not steel, then fire will make them bow, love. No keep can shield them from a dragon’s fury as the Lord of Harrenhal once learned from our ancestor, the Conqueror” She mentions, casually, Drogon indeed renders all possible widespread resistance from the western lords pointless. Cersei Lannister and the Red Keep had also learned that nothing could shield them from a dragon’s wrath, not even what was built by dragons could withstand their fire. In reality, the threat of Drogon alone could cow them into submission.

 

But that was not what she needed to hear.

 

“We don’t know where the loyalties of the men who come to kneel really lie, my Queen” He chooses to play instead with her paranoia, the fear of betrayal. It produces feelings of guilt, he’s being dishonest. Kill the child, Maester Aemon had once said, he never could. Honor and the burden that came with it followed him like a shadow. Her grip on his arm tightens and they continue arm in arm, face set in a visage of cold fury.

 

They do not love her in this land that is supposed to be her home.

 

“Their keeps can be abandoned, lie in wait on their caves. Not an easy fight”

 

Jon did not need for her to be convinced it was impossible, men more bloodthirsty than him would convince her otherwise even if he could. Grey Worm would remark that the Unsullied could not be broken, Akko would boast of how they would trample over the petty westerosi lords, just like they did at Goldroad. Nothing seemed capable of causing fear in those men except the Army of the Dead. No, he just needed to convince her that another path was much more profitable for her, for them.

 

“Rats cannot hide in holes forever. Fire will flush them out”

 

She has no doubt of this, Drogon will give her supremacy over any westerosi battlefield and with King’s Landing in ruins, no man with a sound head on his shoulders would ever consider trying to weather the storm that was Daenerys Targaryen. Aegon drove deeper into his memories as a bastard, of boring lessons beyond the exciting swordfighting practices towards old books and maps he was not truly interested in seeing.

 

“We need those caves, half the realm’s gold and silver lies waiting in the western mines. We can rebuild the realm with that gold”

 

That gives her pause and her visage of cold fury is replaced by one of deep thought as she hurries her pace a bit. They were getting closer, climbing through some stairs from a tower somehow still standing, the windows offered the view of the ruined courtyard, bathed in ash and guarded by sentries clad in black. She was giving him words consideration, but it was clearly him in particular that was on the forefront of her mind.

 

That’s better, Jon thought darkly, left to her own swirling thoughts, she might decide to fly over to west by herself.

 

“So” she finally muttered as they approached a door, part giddy excitement, part dark expectancy. Both hopeful and demanding.

 

“What would my husband-to-be have me do?”

 

Her voice was sweet, perhaps even teasing. But he could see the edge of it in her eyes, it invited danger, wrath, it was a dare to wake the dragon inside. Jon swallowed, this was it. The door might be behind her but it was him who was cornered.

 

“Tyrion is heir to Casterly Rock and Warden of the West by birthright”

 

Dany’s eyes narrow dangerously, in the shadows, it seems like they glow with their own sort of fire.

 

“You would have a man who betrayed me rewarded?”

 

The question is uttered with barely restrained fury, he’s making her mad and Jon resists the urge to step back. She could take that as rejection and bad things happens when you reject Queen Daenerys. Instead he steps forward again, her fury somewhat tempered by his closeness, a thing she had been clearly missing herself. Her head is still head high, chin pointed upwards as she gazes at him. He’s a head taller than her, his frame dwarfing her, but it’s clear to both what the power dynamic between the two is like. It is Dany who demands and Jon who must give.

 

“You have shown everyone that you are strong” he tells her, quietly, intimately “Show them that you can also forgive, that you can be merciful. The West could be ours without raising a single blade. Spare the realm another war” There’s a beat of silence, her eyes remain defiant, stubborn, but he knows he’s made a breakthrough, making sense to her. His hands travel to her hips and wills them not to tremble as he feels her sigh in satisfaction after being deprived of his touch for so long.

 

She still wants him, Jon tries not to be too happy about it and fails. He’s missed her, even with the gods casting their disappointed eyes at him he still desires her hair, her eyes, her lips, her skin. Men all around the known world proclaim Daenerys as the most beautiful woman alive and he can’t help but agree. There’s more to it than that, there’s a safety, a familiarity in laying with her that he’s never felt.

 

He loves her and that’s why he’s doing this.

 

But Dany has never been the type to just relent.

 

“He _betrayed_ me”

 

She repeats and Aegon knows that it’s the only statement that really matters. Tyrion had been trusted, cared for, his betrayal was yet another stab in a heart all too familiar with deception and treason. Her justice was swift, her wrath unrelenting, but her lover knew that it could be tempered. She had forgiven Jorah once, maybe…

 

“So did I”

 

He breathes.

 

That finally does it. She widens her eyes, shocked in at least some capacity, his confession to Sansa had been a wedge between them since they met again in Dragonstone. She had opened her heart to him, trusted him, begged him and he had spat upon her trust, because he needed to be honorable, he needed to be honest. It was a betrayal of love, but a betrayal nonetheless, he had acknowledged it as a mistake before, but never as a betrayal. Again, the swirling storm in her eyes was something he could not decipher again, her face set in cold stoicism as she seemed to battle with herself. He was not truly sure whether she would kiss him or throw him through one of the tower’s windows.

 

His answer came half a breath later when her mouth found itself with his.

 

It was a fierceful thing, desperate, hungry, surely even angry. She lapped and bit and pressed at his mouth, tongue making its way inside to dance with his own once again. Jon gripped her waist as she threw her arms behind his neck. He can’t help but lose himself in the moment, in the warmth of her lips and the taste of her mouth, guilt and desire rage like an inferno in his chest. The urge to pull back like he’s been doing in their last encounters hits him with full force.

 

Suddenly it’s too much, everything, her skin, her hands, her lips. Jon tries to pull back, step back, rethink, gather himself, focus. Dany intercepts him first, hands shooting up to push his forehead against hers as they pant at each other.

 

“No more words” She practically snarls. The lilac in her eyes shines bright in the shadows, alight with ravenous hunger, a mad desire “I want _you_ ”.

 

There’s a razor-sharp finality in that statement, her passion bubbling within like wildfire. This time he’s not going to escape, she’s not going to let him. Jon’s not sure how he feels about that, apprehension and desire flood his veins in equal measure, fixing him in place. She’s done waiting herself and there’s a flash of movement as her mouth rises to claim his again and she fumbles behind her for the handle of the door. Being the one marginally more rational still between the two, he opts to help her as she threatens to throw them both on the ground and just take him right there as he holds a hand to her hip to keep steady.

 

The door gives in and they shamble in like a storm of roaming hands and dancing tongues. Jon’s hip hits something and he can hear the distant sound of something falling to the ground as Dany begins to overwhelm his senses with her amused giggle. His eyes are half-lidded, catching brief flashes of a fire, a bed and bright lilac orbs on the most beautiful face he’s ever seen.  

 

They separate only for the briefest moments, hot air blowing between them as they pant for air a second before diving into each other again. There’s always at least one hand at the back of Jon’s head, a hand that repeatedly pushes him against her every time he lingers away for too long.There’s urgency in her movements, a paranoia that if she lets him rest for too long he’ll retreat back and he realizes with guilt that he has not given her evidence to the contrary. And so she overwhelms him, with every new kiss, his capacity to think clearly slips. In this dark little room there’s only them and Dany’s making sure his thoughts will not stray from her form, no time to think, no time to doubt, just like she wants it. The dark thought passes like the thunder that fades away in a storm filled with them.

 

Her hands tremble as they roam and move with roving intent. Pulling at laces, half eager, half frustrated the clothes just aren’t disappearing. Dany takes a strategic decision as she pushes him, a dazed Jon Snow finding himself suddenly sitting on the bed of some long-lost prince. His mouth is hurting in all the right ways and he has trouble reorienting himself.

 

“Take off your clothes”

 

She commands, unrelenting, and her pale fingers shoot up to claw at her own garments. Jon obeys, because Dragons don’t beg, they demand and one must obey when they demand. It’s hard to get out of his own garments when he’s half-armored wherever he goes. There’s a sound of ripping fabric and her black coverings fall away to reveal the pale supple flesh beneath. He has seen her bare before, but it never failed to render him speechless, Dany was perfect, truly the most beautiful in all the lands under the sun.  Jon was a bit too slow for her liking, she pounces on him as he’s removing his last boot, scarred chest bare, breeches still in place.

 

A kiss, hands roaming and clawing, eyes drinking the sight of his body as much as his drink the sight of hers, her mouth moves to his neck, half sucking and half biting. Jon is rendered breathless as her fingers shoot down to his half undone breeches. Face twisted in a hungry grimace, she all but rips them from his person, throwing them across the room as she takes him in hand, stroking, already standing to attention and harder than valyrian steel.

 

Daenerys does not waste time, this is something she has been craving for far too long.

 

And she won’t, she can’t be denied anymore. Victory is hers, the realm is hers, he is hers.

 

With speed unseeming for a Queen, she climbs a top of him and as quickly as their tryst began Jon finds himself incapable of uttering a single word beyond a choked gasp as she impales herself upon him. Her insides are hot like a smith’s forge, hot, tight and _utterly delicious._ All resistance seeps from his bones as ecstasy overtakes him, her hands nestle themselves on his shoulders and Dany lets out a guttural sound, part moan, part roar, part snarl; primal and animalistic as she writhes atop of him.

 

She rides him.

 

Harder than her dragon, in fact, Jon doesn’t think a woman has ever loved him with this much ferocity. Inside of her there’s pure fire, fire that spreads mercilessly over his veins as she rises and practically stabs herself with his member with ever increasing speed and aggressiveness. Her voice is a choir of deep moans and fierce snarls, her face fixed in a strange expression, halfway smirking as she rides him with unrestrained fury. Jon can’t do much besides close his eyes, pant, moan and hold onto her hips for dear life as she mutters things in tongues he can’t understand. Words whose meanings escape him, tone frantic and delirious. It’s not like him and Dany had never loved themselves roughly, there was little to do beside each other on that boat of hers and their tryst in the North before the truth of his heritage carved a drift between them had been hasty affairs. But this was different, this was love, hate, desperation, desire and frustration all wrapped up in a union of bodies. He was not sure whether Daenerys was trying to fuck him or kill him as her nails dug into his shoulders.

 

“Look at me!” She half-shouted half-moaned in between gasps, her voice was sweet honey laced with bitter steel.  “Look!” She repeated herself, shaking him for good measure. Jon was forced to open his eyes. She heaved over him, breasts shaking, pink nipples shiny with sweat, her body was not trained for combat, but it was taut and slim, beautiful. Her face split into a delirious grin, her eyes seemed to glimmer in the firelight. Jon couldn’t tell if she was angry or happy or both things at the same time. It frightened him, it aroused him, it confused him but gods it felt good.

 

“You’re mine” she snarls, she's holding onto his shoulders so hard he thinks she might draw blood “Nobody’s taking you away from me” she continues as descends upon him again and again until his mind is purged of any thought except her “Not Tyrion, not Sansa, not Arya” Where did these suspicions come from? Was she truly so attached to him that she would suspect of their own family. In his heart, Jon knew the answer, but that didn’t matter right now, all that truly mattered was her flesh and her skin, pure fire, pure warmth.

 

“Dany Dany Dany…”

 

He repeated himself, breathless, unable to utter another word. Her name was the sweetest or curses, the holiest of pleas. Dany’s grin was wolfish, victorious.

 

“ _Nobody!_ ”

 

She roars, shaking, hair undone. Not a queen, not even a woman anymore, but a dragon conquering her prey. Daenerys savored him, all of him, basking in her triumph, she had wanted this, she deserved this. Her back arched, body taken over by pleasure, unrelenting, throwing herself at him, holding him as she bit fiercely into his shoulder and Jon screamed, overcome by the most delicious of pains as his seed flooded her insides.

 

Later they would lay naked upon furs, racing hearts calmed as they finally shared a moment of intimacy. Jon’s arm draped over waist as she nestled herself comfortably against him. For once seemingly content, a happy little expression on her face, this one he could recognize. They stayed like that for a long time, her head resting comfortably on his arm as his fingers traced lazy circles on her belly.

 

“Have you thought about what I said” Aegon whispered.

 

Dany tensed for a moment. He could not see her face, but knew her mind was racing.

 

“I will think about it” were the Queen’s final words and his lover contented himself with nodding against her hair as he kissed it softly.

 

Three days later they would stand before Imp in his cell. Tyrion, deprived of his noble garbs and dressed as a common prisoner looks considerably more gaunt, even smaller than before. But the green of his Lannister eye meets the violet of the Queen’s Targaryen orbs with defiance. He is a Lion of Casterly Rock, even after everything that has happened and if death has finally come knocking then he will face it with his pride intact.

 

Daenerys stands before him, clad in royal black and red again, Jon standing in warrior’s gambeson and leather just behind her, Grey Worm on the opposite side as her loyal Unsullied guard the cell doors, black sentinels with shields and spears ready. The northman could swear that sparks are flying where their gazes meet, silence stretching between them.

 

“If it were up to me, you’d be already burning” The Queen says, back to the cold tone of a monarch whose throne is bathed in blood. A hint of what could be a smile creeps on her face “It _is_ up to me. But you should be grateful for your Queen’s mercy, the man who will be your King has convinced me that you have a better use for us”

 

Tyrion’s eyes widen, caught in mute shock, he clearly had not expected any sort of mercy. His eyes dart towards Aegon, who looks away from his gaze, the Imp had entrusted him a mission he had been unable to carry out, but this was the least he could do for him.

 

“You will remain in the capital until the rest of the great lords arrive, then you will swear fealty to me as Warden of the West and ensure the westernlands _comply_ ” She says this with the edge both Jon and Tyrion have come to recognize as the promise of violence, a promise that does not fail to materialize itself “Fail us and fire will be the only mercy that will await you, Lord Lannister”

 

Finality marks the statement and Jon knows that if that came to happen, nothing he could say or do would convince his Queen to show mercy to the dwarf once again. He has been thrown here precisely because he didn’t want to be a part of the world she planned to build with fire and blood; and here she was, offering just another kind of service. Pride and integrity urged him to refuse, to take the fires and be done with it. His family was dead and he had no small part in that, the woman he believed would bring forth a better world turned out to be a butcher like the rest, there was nothing else to live for. But the eyes of the man who would be king met his, the dark grey urging him with cold determination, accept you damn fool they begged. Mayhaps the last of his plans could work...he didn’t have much faith left though. Swallowing his own pride, Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, nodded in mute acceptance.

 

“If the gods are willing, we will never see each other again” The Mother of Dragons all but spits, turning on her heel, departing as if the presence of the Imp alone causes her a deep distaste. Grey Worm and his men, who had previously stood like statues, come to life as they clack their spears on the ground and depart behind their Mhysa. Only the Bastard of Winterfell and the Imp of Casterly Rock remain.

 

Silence stretches between them, Tyrion muses that a drink wouldn’t be half bad.

 

“I suppose I should be thankful” the Lannister manages, conjuring something akin to a smile on his bearded face, mismatched eyes rising to meet Jon’s shape with a sort of tired fondness. “King eh?”

 

Jon averts his gaze, guilty.

 

“Tyrion…”

 

The dwarf raises a hand, placating the man who had once been a boy with a bastard’s name. It had been a long hard road they both had went through since the first time they parted ways, up on top of the Wall. He a naughty little man and Jon no-one but another bastard come to be forgotten in the far north.

 

Fate was such a cruel mistress.

 

“There’s nothing to apologize for” Tyrion tries to comfort, it had been a heavy thing, what he had asked of him. There was no blame in not being able to be a monster. “Love is the death of duty, right?”

 

The taller man looked back at him with a look of somber apology. Despite the ramifications of allowing Dany to rule, he could not bring himself to betray her like that, not the woman he loved. The face of Ygritte’s  flashed before his eyes, the arrow that pierced her heart had not been his, but he had killed her all the same. He had been selfish and Jon hoped the gods would forgive a man for listening to his own heart.

 

“Right” was all he could offer.

 

Tyrion huffed, amused in the saddest of ways. The gods had deemed it fit to gift him his birthright. The seat, his by right, that his father, Lord Tywin, had denied him so cruelly all his life. But the price...the price had been too high. The former Hand of the Queen’s sacrifices had been proven worthless, his brother was as dead as the people Tyrion thought he would save.

 

“I…” Jon tried to find words, something meaningful to say. So much had happened, somehow none of them had expected things go the way they did. This was not the end the songs told them about and despite the realities, everyone of them was still a child somehow, sitting around a fire and listening to songs of heroes.

 

“I wish things had gone differently”

 

He goes with honesty, it feels refreshing, something right in a world gone wrong. They can’t change the past but Jon still craves for it. He wishes he could have talked to his (uncle?) father Eddard again, wishes he could have ridden south with Robb and somehow protected him, wishes he had been strong enough to save the countless comrades that have fallen following him, wishes he could have been what Daenerys needed him to be when she needed him the most. Aegon kneels, eyes on level with the liberated dwarf, Tyrion looks momentarily close to tears, but he has already shed them all.

 

“Me too” Tyrion breathes, shaken as he waddles closer to embrace Jon, the man returning the gesture with silent sorrow.

 

“Good luck, Bastard”

 

The dwarf mutters, sincere and fearful with equal measure. He has grown to appreciate the northern bastard he had once held pity for. A good man should not face such hard choices, but the world was not made for good men.

 

“Good luck, Imp”

 

Jon mutters. His words had given him strength in a time when he had thought himself alone and scorned in the world. Their shared history may not be as long or as rich as with other men, but most of whom shared real history with both were now dead. They were alive, after everything and that was a strong enough link, they were survivors of the game that never ended, the deadly Game of Thrones.

 

Tyrion steps back, mismatched eyes eyeing the once-bastard with a sort of reluctant pride, hands on his shoulders.

 

“Never forget what you are” he recites.

 

“The rest of the world will not” Jon finishes for him and the two men share a tired smile as the northerner rises again. Tyrion nods absentmindedly and begins his slow walk towards the rest of his life, first out of this cell, then to the wider world and all the horrors it holds.

 

“Fate takes indeed strange turns” the new Lord of Casterly Rock intones, Unsullied flanking them on ruined hallways. Aegon offers nothing but a somber nod and an aye, Tyrion was always the one better at finding humor in every single dark thing.

 

“Keep in touch, eh? I still drink and know things” He offers Jon, who just offers a sad smile and his nod in return.

 

“Besides, I’ve still got some old debts to pay” Tyrion’s green eye glints as he grins at the man who will be king.

 

“Say, have you ever heard of Ser Bronn of the Blackwater?...”

 

The ash has stopped raining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok just gonna get this out of the way. I'm horrible with dialogue so, y'know, don't judge me too harshly if every spoken word there looked sappy lol. Also, this was my first experience writing any sort of lemony/sexual stuff, so I hope that turned out well. Also, Iunno bout' the sex scene, should I change this to explicit?
> 
> Thank y'all for your feedback!


	3. Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has a talk with Arya and goes down to help the people of King's Landing

“No”

 

Jon’s voice is steel and his grip is just as hard on her arm. Arya’s eyes are slits, narrow, cold and filled with something the man who had once called himself her brother found with fright he could not recognize. They glinted dangerously like the edge of the same valyrian dagger she held so tightly that Jon could swear her knuckles behind the gloves were already white. It was the same weapon that had saved them all, plunged into the heart of darkness, and now, with what she was saying, she threatened to put everyone he loved in jeopardy. The chill in the eyes, he had seen it before, seen it in true killers, souls so accustomed to take life that killing became easier than breathing.

 

He had seen it in Styr, barbarian and man-eater, had seen it in Karl Tanner, cruelty shining along with knives on firelight, had seen it in Ramsay Snow, to whom killing was sweeter than any woman, had even seen a glint of it in the eyes of the True Enemy, the creature that had been death itself.

 

Had seen it in Dany, pale violet shining like a storm as she justified the burning of the city in which ruins now they walked.

 

It was not a look for Arya, not for his little sister.

 

The chill realization that she was not his sister anymore dawned on him as if Gendry’s hammer had just smashed his skull to bits. Sure they had embraced each other and looked in each other’s eyes with care once again in Winterfell, but she was not a tomboyish little girl and he was not some bastard boy anymore. He was a man of war, a seasoned killer and she...she had become a dark woman, he didn’t need her words to confirm it. All Jon needed to know that this wasn’t his little sister anymore was to see the cold ice in her eyes as she held a dagger in hand and the promise to kill a queen on her lips.

 

Where had she been? What had she seen?

 

Another failure of his, he wasn’t there for Arya when she needed him either. Duty had bound him to the Wall when he should have been with her, who loved him not as her half-brother but as her true brother and only confidant in all the wide world. Duty had gotten him here, in this city of ash, with women that he loved yet demanded such a heavy price for his affections, no matter the kind. Unsullied drilled on the ruins of the Red Keep, Dothraki screamers walked and rode through its halls. It was treason of the highest order she was proposing and these walls had eyes and ears all over. Even know he could feel Daenerys, her lilac gaze upon him, loving and feral and demanding. He could feel the fires that would consume Arya whole if she didn’t cease with this madness.

 

“No” He repeats, firm yet pleading. There’s no name for the look she gives him, something between pity and distaste, as if he were some agonizing beast in need to be put out of its misery.

 

“You’ve gone soft” She hissed, the embers of a link that had once glowed brightly stopped her from going beyond trying to pull her arm away from his grasp. Jon tried to keep a stern face but hurt made itself manifest in the grey eyes that matched her own. “Weak” Is her sentence and the former Bastard of Winterfell can’t help but painfully wonder what sort of horror could have swallowed his little sister so completely that only this bundle of bitter retribution remained.

 

Too many eyes, too many ears. If Grey Worm even heard a sliver of her words…

 

The Queen’s impassive face as Varys burned flashed behind his eyes and he pushes them both through a door, into some sort of dust-filled pantry or the remains of it. Arya steps back, valyrian steel glinting in the shadows along her cold, cold eyes. Aegon closes the door behind them, looking back at her with despair on his eyes. The man realizes he’s trapped himself with a ravenous wolf in a cage and this she-wolf stands at the ready to pounce just like in the wild. Jon wouldn’t be half-surprised if she started snarling at him.

 

“Can’t you see what she’s done? What she does?” She prods mercilessly, honor forces Jon to lower his gaze in shame. Aye, he knows, he knows it all too well. He can see it in the ashen city, he can see it in the eyes still trapped in shock of the survivors when he goes down to give out rations and blankets, what little he can give to ease their pains. They could have been liberators, instead, vengeance and dragonfire made executioners of them all.

 

“Have you gone blind? Is that it?” Her questions are malicious, her face a mask of perfect stoicism. How could this be the same girl who had embraced him so lovingly back in Winterfell? “Or are you that smitten by her? You’re too entranced by a dragon’s cunt? Is that it?” The She-Wolf continues to press, she has advanced, soundless, like a spectre. She’s close to his face, eyes wide with cold contempt. Her words were piercing him more effectively than the sword he gifted her, still at her hip, ever could. Jon had thought that it was Sansa the one who was supposed how to play games with lies and pretty words, the crass language denotes her clear anger and the depth of her loathing for Daenerys. Despite her boasting and resistance to being called a lady, Arya Stark still has the mouth of a highborn maid, a fact that she probably hasn’t noticed herself, she rarely curses.

 

A cold hand comes to grasp at his bearded chin, her blade glints and winks with every stray ray of sunlight from the ruined roof, she forces him to look upon her eyes. The closeness is unnecessary and makes Jon deeply uncomfortable, it reminds him too much of Daenerys and the quiet authority with which she wields him as if he were her trusty blade. The fact that this is supposed to be Arya Underfoot, his little sister, reminds him of the ungodly nature of his union with the Dragon Queen.  

 

“You’ve forgotten from where you came from” She whispers, hot breath on his face “Who you are”

 

Her words wake a strange anger inside of him, like a torch falling upon a hidden cache of wildfire. Where he comes from? Who he is? He never knew such things, born in Dorne, a Bastard of the North, a Prince That Was Promised. A wolf, a dragon, a crow, a long lost prince, a king, a king, a king. Aegon never had the chance to know who he was, it had been _her_ father who had denied him the truth. How long had he not begged the gods to reveal him the truth? To show him a mother, high-born and beautiful, to make him a true-born son. He had gotten it all, the gods were cruel creatures, they had given him all he had once desired, glory and fame, legitimacy and a past.

 

But the price to be paid.

 

Gods in the sky, it had been too high.

 

The brother (cousin?) removes the hand from his face, pushing her away. He glares and she glares right back, the rubies on Longclaw shimmer like Drogon’s eyes. It is Jon who steps forwards this time, looming over her. She’s not impressed, as darkly expected.

 

“I have not forgotten” he mutters, serious “And you’re being a foolish girl”

 

He sees the mask slip for little longer than a fraction of a second, seeming to recoil. A hint of the girl he called his little sister shining through, hurt by the accusation. Her Jon would have never called her foolish; silly, hotheaded, stubborn, sure, but never foolish. The icy mask is back on her face again, fast enough to make Jon wonder if he just wasn’t imagining what he wanted to see. Arya seems to have mastered the art of controlling her own face just as deftly as Sansa.

 

“Have you seen what’s around us? Those aren’t common soldiers and levies following her” Aegon confides, letting some of the fears he has been holding slip through. The Unsullied Legions and the Dothraki Hordes aren’t godless men. The Horselords believe in their Great Stallion that rides the skies, stars its fiery khalasar, according to the boastful tales he has heard from them. To them, Daenerys is their hero of prophecy, a Stallion That Will Mount The World, leading them to conquer all lands under the sky. Huddled in the northern cold of the Winterfell Godswood, Grey Worn confided in him that he and the Unsullied held cult for their own goddess of war, the Lady of Spears. The eunuch has dreamily claimed that their Mhysa must obviously be the Bride of Battle in the flesh, dragonfire her mighty spear.

 

“You have your own army” Arya rebukes, hers is a northern pride.

 

“She is a _god_ to them” He emphasizes, desperately. The wrath that her death could wake was unpredictable. There was no army in the Seven Kingdoms that would follow him with that much blind devotion, except perhaps, for what little was left of the Brotherhood Without Banners or some of the converted lords from the Stormlands, red cultists as they were, who believed Aegon to be some sort of prophesied hero. Azor Ahai, the red priests claimed, Melisandre’s face flashed in his mind, even they couldn’t decide whether it was him or Dany they wanted.

 

“The North couldn’t even unite to avenge your Lord Father-”

 

“Our father” She snaps.

 

“-they could hardly unite when the threat of the fucking dead was at our doors. You know this”

 

She knows and he can tell as she tenses. The lords of the North are proud, ancestral men, descendants of the first men. Up in the North, honor and oaths and family pride reigned supreme where wealth and convenience does in the south. The winter and the wars left the land without young men and with deep wounds and feuds between families that had once considered each other kin. The lords did not crave to follow him or Arya or even Sansa, what they craved was the chance to return to their own keeps and store grain while they polished swords and buried their dead. It was loyalty, oaths and the memory of Eddard Stark which kept their swords on their service.

 

Faith, faith spurned the Dragon Queen’s armies forwards. The Dothraki left their Great Grass Sea of their ancestors and embarked upon the Narrow one that had terrorized them for so long, for the chance to ride for her. The Unsullied had been slaves, they had not lands to return to, no families to take care of, no children to fight for, Daenerys and her cause was everything to them.

 

This land of pride and treason could not hope to defeat them.

 

“And there’s the dragon” Jon muttered, darkly. Arya’s own eyes widened in memory, something akin to fear slipping through. Even Jon could not truly understand what the wrath of a dragon felt like, he had been with the armies, where the flames from the sky didn’t fall. But she had been in the city, among the people, who screamed and cried and begged as the black dread fell upon them.

 

She feared dragons, she had reason to be afraid.

 

“We have no idea what a dragon without a master does” the queen’s lover pressed, the deeply buried fear bubbling to the surface. Things he had considered in the dead of the night, curled up with a woman with silver for hair, but never dared to speak out loudly. The idea of Drogon set loose upon the world, with no master at all to stop him, deeply terrified him. The dragon was a beast that could reduce cities to rubble, a temperamental beast at that.  

 

“If she dies, they will sniff her blood back to your blade. And nothing will save us when the Screamers ride up to trample us underhoof. We’ll be lucky if Grey Worm leaves the dogs alive”

 

His own words hang between them like a dark prophecy. Arya’s grip on her blade is tight, fingers trembling with impotent rage as she seems to give in to his reasonings. She had once been on the cusp of nothingness, about to become No One. It had been the memory of Jon Snow’s smile and the longing for home that had driven her back from that darkness. And she returned, only to find him betwixt not only by some foreign Queen, but by a woman who delivered more death than Arya would ever see in a lifetime. The Dragon Queen was a rabid beast, the heir to her mad father’s legacy and she deserved to die. Daenerys Stormborn had taken her kill!

 

But she was not alone, not anymore, Sansa’s pale blue eyes were on her mind. The sister she had loathed for so long, now the very last thing aside from Jon she clinged to. Bran was...Bran, but different, not just Bran anymore, Bran was gone, Bran was dead. Her memories brought her back to the burning city, among the dying and the suffering. The silver woman was nothing but fire and blood, how couldn’t he see that?

 

Arya stepped back into his space, taking him by surprise as she sheathed the dagger and embraced him. Stunned for a moment, slender arms holding him, Jon reciprocates the gesture, trying to find a sliver of the home they both left so long ago.  

 

“You care about her” her statement cuts through the tender moment like a razor sharp blade. He can’t see her face or the expression it holds and that fills him with dread as he tenses, paralyzed in shame he cannot escape. He does, Daenerys Targaryen is no easy woman to love, she’s fire, wild and hurtful when unkempt. But he knows that it can also be the warmth one holds close to the heart, the thing keeping shadows at bay. He loves Dany, beyond decency, beyond duty, beyond reason.

 

The cold wolf lips graze his ear, like the biting winds of the Wall.

 

“Care clouds judgement”

 

And then she’s gone, through the door and beyond. She won’t try to kill Dany, not today, she’s sheathed the dagger. But that doesn’t mean she’ll let the matter rest, he knows it in his heart. There’s a raging sort of resentment in her heart and now Daenerys is to be yet another name to add to an endless list. Jon is left alone to his own devices, in a dark, dusty room with his own thoughts and troubles.

 

Aegon stands for yet another moment, still as a pond. Rage builds up inside of him, bubbling up as his breathing speeds up, flaring off his nostrils. In a flash, his hand darts to the underside of a forgotten table in front of him, flipping it with violence. Before it has hit the ground, his boot comes crashing against the rotten wood like an executioner’s sword. Splinters fly and Jon roars in frustration, seething with rage he can’t set free.

 

This city, he thinks, fists closed tightly.

 

This damn city.

 

Then he too, departs the dark room. Out into the world with all its horrors.

 

The sun doesn’t really seem to shine in the City of Ash. Thick, dark grey clouds cover the heavens. For the first two days they had been of an ugly black, like a storm from which only ash kept falling like snow. The ash would not stop falling until after little more than a week and by then what remained of King’s Landing was covered in sheets of grey ash and black soot. The clouds, although lighter, had not left yet, prey to some mysterious phenomenon that only Sam or some Maester would be able to explain.

 

He missed Sam, so many of his friends were dead. But nothing could quite manage to kill Sam the Slayer, he wondered how he fared, with Gilly and his son. That boy may not be Sam’s own blood, but Jon knew the last of the Tarlys would be a worthy father, he was a kind and learned man . Besides, Gilly was expecting, the White Wolf remembered with a silent chuckle, descending upon blackened steps towards Flea Bottom, the slums a tad more downtrodden than ever before, swollen as they were with the city’s survivors.

 

Ravens had been sent to Sam, he was to convene with Lord Howland Reed in the Neck and ride down back to the Citadel with the legal evidence to back Jon’s claim to the Throne. The thought was dark and foreboding in Aegon’s mind, weighing heavy on his conscience, soon his identity would be no secret anymore and lords and ladies would have to call him Aegon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone.

 

Well, his identity had for a while not been exactly a secret anymore. Varys had made sure of that. The eunuch may be ash, but his legacy lived on, in his written words, his influence and a network of spies still moving, headless, but heeding the last orders of an expert spymaster. All Great Houses of Westeros already knew, whether they believed it or not was another issue and unseen lips whispered throughout the realms in the ears of the smallfolk. The voices whisper of a hidden Dragon Prince, fit to rule, the rightful King.

 

And where Dany had once seen a threat, she now saw a chance. The realm was hers by Conquest, no army in this country could defy her and their impending marriage would ensure nothing else could challenge her claim. When he succumbed to her in the throne room, she did not only solidify her hold over him but solidified her hold over the Iron Throne. A grand move, a spectacular victory, even the Spider would be proud.

 

The eunuch’s will would be complete, Jon would be King of the Seven Kingdoms, just not in the way Lord Varys imagined it.

 

The right ruler on the Iron Throne, the Spider had said and paid the fiery price for it.

 

He was no ruler, not a leader of anything, he never wanted any crowns. But now he had nowhere else to run, nowhere to hide. He smirked sardonically to himself as he walked the steps towards the overcrowded slums, yeah that seemed right, he mused.

 

What he wants has never really mattered.

 

He had made but one decision with his heart and time would prove if the gods would seem it fit to make him pay dearly for his love as well.

 

In the aftermath of the Battle of King’s Landing, Jon had taken it upon himself to alleviate the burdens of the shellshocked survivors. Daenerys’ army held nothing but contempt or indifference for the people of the city and his own people of the North held no love for the people of King’s Landing. These people cheered when they chopped your father’s head off, his officers whispered to his ear, to them, this had not been slaughter, but the rightful retribution for the treachery the capital had enacted upon Eddard Stark, their true Lord. For even now the North followed a memory, they had sworn their swords to Robb and then to him, but it was the shadow of Eddard Stark with Ice in his hands that kept them loyal. War and loss had stripped the northerners of honor and kindness beyond words, they were a pack of wolves now, eager to bite.

 

Only the Knights of the Vale held some form of distaste for the great burning of the city, even if they too held a sort of silent contempt for its people. The Knights of the Aerie were reluctant helpers and were certainly annoyed by the survivors’ needs and petitions, but their knightly honor spurned them onward and Jon took all the help he could get. Dany held his antics as amusing, teasing him about his kind heart.

 

They don’t deserve you, she would mutter in-between chuckles and kisses as she hanged from his neck like a lovestruck maiden. It’s a dangerous dance, they don’t talk about what she did, not since the throne room.

 

Temporary distance from his queen was welcomed, not only because of his personal struggles but also because he feared that if Daenerys had too much of him, his only bargaining coin might lose significance. Dany was more prone to agree to anything he said when she was frustrated and her body pulsed for his touch. It made Jon feel filthy, to use himself and her love like that. But his queen was a fierce, stubborn thing, her fiery temper sometimes uncontrollable, it was better for everyone if she was willing to compromise, even if it was just to have Jon warm her bed.

 

Aegon walked down the soot-painted steps flanked by men wearing black and dark leathers, what little remained of both the Night’s Watch and the Brotherhood Without Banners, a couple dozen of men with no more homes to return to and no cause to keep them going. As such, they followed Jon Snow, to some of them commander, to others some promised hero but their leader all the same. Recent developments had driven him to dismiss his usual Stark guard in favor of these humble men.

 

Arya moved like a shadow in the Northern Army. For the first time in her life resorting to her authority as a Stark of Winterfell to hold sway over the officers. Slowly, but surely, command was slipping from his hands and falling into hers, Jon did not know by what manner of trickery, intimidation or gods-forbid, seduction she was achieving this, but from time to time the She-Wolf could be seen convening or being escorted by a cadre of Stark officers. By all means, it was her right, but it still unnerved him, there was no need for it and Jon worried about what exactly she might be scheming with such moves.

 

The man’s heart and soul were not meant for such intrigues. What was she trying to do? Was she securing the army for Sansa? Would Sansa try something? His auburn-haired sister (cousin?) crossed through his mind rapidly. Sansa had made it repeatedly clear to him in Winterfell that she didn’t trust Dany and her insistence of northern independence annoyed Daenerys to no end. There were tensions between both women and despite Dany’s own efforts back at Winterfell, they seemed only to grow.

 

Anyways, he might need to be careful, despite their differences during childhood, Arya was Sansa’s shadow now and he had to assume that whatever she did, was, in some part or measure, an extension of the Lady of Winterfell’s will. His warnings seemed to have worked, for she has not seemingly made a move against the Queen just yet and hasn’t spoken of it since. But Jon still feels as if she’s following him wherever he goes, grey cold eyes never far.

 

Flea Bottom is teeming, desperate souls huddled in hovels and half-collapsed ruins of houses that had been already in the process of falling apart even before Drogon descended from the skies. The survivors light fires carefully, almost fearfully, as if the heat from a simple bonfire reminds them too much of dragonflame. Sunlight pierces their cloak of clouds almost shyly, like spears of light poking a dormant beast. When people see him and his men, they step aside to let him pass, loud voices giving in to murmurs, they look at him with a strange mix of expressions. There’s reverence and contempt, respect and distaste, gratefulness and fear. He may be the one helping them, but he’s still widely known as the Dragon Queen’s man and lover. And in the City of Ashes, there’s only fear and scorn for the thought of Daenerys Targaryen.

 

He knows what other things they whisper about too. Dragon-Wolf some say, whether with hate or love, Jon can’t tell just yet. But among the crowds, some don’t see Jon Snow, but Aegon Targaryen, whomever that man might be. Jon isn’t sure himself just yet, he fears the name and the burden it brings. As a child, he had dreamed of being like Daeron Targaryen, the boy king who had conquered Dorne with just fourteen years.

 

But he had been a foolish bastard boy then. He was 23 and wanted nothing of it, not anymore, all he yearned for was a home, to stop fighting and the woman he loved. But the Iron Throne was part of Dany and soon, he supposed, it would be part of him too. He has stopped wearing the Stark gorget, concerned that such an open display of allegiance and status might alienate people who might already mistrust him. Forsaking his usual armor for the humble leathers he wore during the Battle of Winterfell.

 

Davos’ grey head peaks up from among a mass of disgruntled knights and commoners soon enough, giving off bowls of simple brown stew, the bowl o’ brown the denizens of Flea Bottom had been living off for years now. Now it was food for everyone, from the low-lives of flea bottom, to the now homeless merchant families from Visenya’s Hill. The Onion Knight looked back for a moment to offer Jon a tired smile and nod of acknowledgement, this had been once his home and none had lost as much sleep trying to help these people than Davos Seaworth, who knew the struggles of the common man long before Stannis Baratheon rose him to knighthood.

 

The younger man answers in kind with a nod of his own, Davos is the closest thing Jon has had to a mentor or a father figure since the Old Bear Mormont died. Their conversations in recent times had been short affairs, aimed at more functional matters as they tried to organize their efforts towards helping the battle’s survivors. Daenerys and her role in the mess they were trying to alleviate were matters not to be discussed, under any circumstance, by an unspoken but clear agreement. Jon would rather not press, but the thought filled him with shame, as so many things did these days.

 

The old knight and the young lord fell into a comfortable rhythm as Jon joined him in his work, giving out rough blankets to stone-faced people. Aegon preferred the dull repetition of simple work, in it, he could lose himself, not having to worry about his bride-to-be or his scheming sisters or the weight of the duty that was about to fall on him. He was but a man, helping other people however he could, it had taken some time before Jon had learned to appreciate that simplicity, time and pain.

 

People came shivering and hungry, old rackety men, lonesome mothers and freshly orphaned children, all seemingly covered in some way by soot and ash. Their pleas and complaints were loud and disorganized, desperate and angry and fearful all at once. The north side of the city had been left relatively unscathed by the dragon’s rampage but where flames didn’t do the trick, the Dothraki Horde had charged screaming, raping and killing where the fires didn’t block their paths. The sight of a rider of the Khalasar was enough to make women weep and children piss themselves, which was why he barred them from guarding him in his rounds down here.

 

The Bloodriders had a sort of rugged respect for his skills with a sword and for the fact that he had been able to ride a dragon. A dragonrider was apparently something worth a particular sort of reverence in a culture so engrossed with riding things, they called him Khal Ver, King Wolf, Daenerys had translated once between amused chuckles. Because of Ghost, gods he missed that wolf.

 

“Gods be with you, Lord Snow”

 

The womanly voice called him back from his own thoughts, he recognized this one. Palming one of his men on the shoulder to beckon him to take his place, the man who will be king turns around to face Lady Lemore. Hooded and covered in humble Septa’s robes, austerity could not hide the handsome face, veiled with dark hair or the curved woman’s figure, despite her mature age. The Wars had not been kind to the Faithful, the Sparrows had risen and fallen in an inferno of green flames, long before Daenerys descended from the skies to deliver the divine punishment they had promised for so long. Most of the so-called Faith Militant had been hunted down by Queen Cersei and even less survived now after the Burning.

 

But disasters had a way of galvanizing faith, not diminishing it. The Sparrows that remained now proclaimed that Drogon had come to cleanse the city of sin and that the worthy were now reborn from the ashes, a rapidly growing belief among people desperate to rationalize what happened. With the Most Devout slain and the Faith back in the Starry Sept from Oldtown in sheer chaos, Septa Lemore now led the Faithful.

 

Charismatic, charitable and all around friendly, the smiling face of Lady Lemore, as she was known contrasted deeply with the scowls of the Poor Fellows guarding her, with their dark chained tunics, cudgels and seven-pointed stars carved or painted to their flesh.

 

“Gods be with you, Lady Lemore”

 

Aegon responded in kind, not quite able to manage a smile. Aside from his times on the Night’s Watch, the Lord of Winterfell had interacted rarely with the Faithful and their seven-faced god. His gods were the Old Ones, who whispered in the woods and winds, watching through their weirwoods. Those gods had power, was Bran not proof enough of that?

 

But down south there were no weirwoods, Jon mused as Lemore beckoned him with a mother’s smile to walk beside her. He was trapped in this ruin of a city, he darkly thought as both his own men and Poor Fellows flanked them as she took his arm and they began to walk through soot-stained streets. Like a mother holding onto her young son. Religious tensions were already high, he had learned. The Sparrows had no love for Dany and her armies with their own foreign faiths, nor for the northerners and their devotion to carved trees. Lemore was an instrument of compromise, the things she preached were arguably favorable for House Targaryen, a happy little accident... or not. Either way, this small pretty woman was the difference between these people submitting or rising up in revolt.

 

Aegon already knew he would have to tread carefully.

 

“The Faithful are thankful for your cares, Lord Snow” She mused, smiling, Lemore always smiled, despite the carnage and the ashes. Jon’s thoughts drifted to Daenerys, as they often did, the queen did not seem like a pious woman, not in the traditional sense. Dany had traveled all over the world and seen many gods and those who worshiped them, the Dragon Queen spoke of gods as vague things, strange powers to be called upon on convenience depending on the time and place.

 

“It’s the least I can do” Is all he cautiously offers. People bow their heads at their sight, he’s not sure whether they’re doing it for him or for Lady Lemore.

 

“The least we all can do, our thanks are still in order, noble lord”  She was certainly better than him in the ways of fanciful words and Jon wondered about where she came from. Like all holy prophets, she seemed to have risen from mist and smoke, out of nowhere.

 

“I hear congratulations are in order” Her smile widens as she meets the man’s confused gaze “A wedding is to be expected”

 

A misstep, face flustered for a second before looking away. Another ill-kept secret, Daenerys had been subtle neither in her boasting of their coming matrimony nor in her affections for him. The whole city knew they were sharing bed already, if not the whole realm. The ramifications of their...filial relationship still unnerved him.

 

“So I hear” Is the only answer he deems acceptable to relay.

 

“We humble people don’t have a sept anymore, I fear” Lemore mentions off, casually, as if talking about losing a pendant. “The Tyrant made sure of that” There’s a shimmer of something dangerous in her eyes, blue, Aegon thinks, but sometimes the light will shine a certain ways and he’ll be sure that they’re a haunting shade of purple, like Dany’s. Tyrant, a word Jon is more than a bit sure is being used to describe his lover in more than one darkened hall and corner.

 

“But the gods smile upon the union of great men and women” She sing-songs, eyeing Jon, gouging for a sign in the stoic face. The Queen’s betrothed looks back at the Septa, inquisitive, get to the point.

 

“We will be more than happy to bless your union, Lord Snow” The words are conspirative, almost teasing “Faith is...important, for these brave people” Those words in particular may sound friendly, with her motherly tone and easy smile. But they were a warning and Jon darkly realized that he would have to see much more of this woman in the days to come.

 

That did not exactly amuse him.

 

“My thanks, Lord Snow, do give my best wishes to Her Grace”

 

Is her farewell, separating herself gently from him as rugged zealots move to flank her in her way towards the masses.

 

Jon watches as she walks away, losing herself in the crowds with an indiscernible gaze. He holds it for a heartbeat, two, three. Then he beckons the man with the cloak and bow beside him, archer’s eye in a lean face, crowned by brown hair.

 

“Anguy”

 

“Yes, Lord”

 

“Watch that woman”

 

And like that, Jon Snow returns to work once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh, sorry if this one's a little different lol. Considering Dany's not in it, aside from being mentioned. Anyways, very grateful for all your feedback!


	4. Debts Paid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon spars with Greyworm and the Targaryens get visits.

Dany liked dangerous men.

 

She was neither afraid nor ashamed to admit it. Her first husband, Drogo, had not been of her choice. The girl she had been was sold off like some broodmare, a slave to her own gender, she, a princess, reduced to the bargaining chip with which her brother would get his barbarian army. She would learn to love Khal Drogo later on, but at first all she felt for the warlord was apprehension, fear...and attraction. There was a glint of danger in his dark eyes from the very moment they set upon his promised bride. Tall as a mountain and just as solid, Drogo carried the look of a man who could snap another in two with his fingers and that lit up a fire in Dany’s belly in a time when she had no understanding of things like desire, before Doreah (traitorous bitch that she had turned out to be) taught her the ways of the flesh.

 

Daario Naharis had been another sort of dangerous. The mercenary had neither armies to command nor people over whom to command power, but he was fearless, utterly without shame and roguish in a way a young free woman like Daenerys couldn’t resist. Daario moved in bed with as much skill as some lyseni bedslave, she recalled with mirth, with a tongue sharper than that Arahk he carried around. Where other men feared to even speak to her, Daario spoke honestly to her, his desire made obvious, it was his boldness which spurned her to accept him in her bed. The man had dared to love a dragon and gods know he did love her, for he had lain with a thousand women he said, but never with a dragon. But she had not loved him, not like she loved Jon, not even how she loved Drogo. Daario was...an amusement, a great fire gone with the winds of destiny, he was passionate, loyal and by the gods was he _fun_. But he was not the home her heart yearned for and so she did not weep when she left him behind to claim the throne of her ancestors.

 

She had not liked Jon at first, that was true enough. The thought almost sent her into a fit of laughter as she sipped on sweetened wine. Jon Snow, the Bastard King of the North had been an infuriating man, arriving to demand things of her instead of bending knee like he was supposed to. He was a somber man of somber purpose, who spoke of an army of corpses and refused to take her seriously, as if her birthright were some sort of petty squabble. Later she would learn the truth of his words and the honesty of his commitment, but back then he had been an annoying little man, the brooding sort had never been her type, to be honest.

 

But there was...something. Not me, he had said and Dany had known _exactly_ what he meant, feeling the familiar warmth in her belly. Rumors spoke of Jon Snow as Barristan the Bold come again, a spectre of death with a sword in the so called Battle of the Bastards.Where other men used honeyed words and worshipped the very ground she stepped on, Jon Snow seemed to almost ignore everything about her, gazing at her very character. He was not impressed, neither was he captivated, for a woman so used to being followed and desired, a man like Jon Snow was strange and distressing. He had her running circles around him, following him like a lost puppy without even knowing. No man had loved her quite like he had loved her on that boat.

 

He was special, but still dangerous. Dany has had little opportunity to appreciate his battle prowess, saw brief glimpses of it in the Night To End All Nights. She was far above the ground to watch him in the conquest of this city. But his body was built for killing and Longclaw, the valyrian blade he carried, always dangled from his hip, a cruel tease of violence yet unseen. Daenerys wanted to see it, the violence he was capable of unleashing, the bloodlust in his eyes, she wanted to see if he could wake the dragon too.

 

And the gods had deemed it fit to give her a taste, apparently.

 

Jon and Grey Worm circled each other like lions, bare-chested, the blades were tourney swords, blunt but by the way they held them one would think they’re valyrian steel. Jon was a lean creature, well-built, with strong arms accustomed to the weight of a bastard sword. Deep scars that would never quite heal criss-crossed his torso, marks of betrayal. Grey Worm had scars of his own, jagged mementos from his brutal training and battles fought for the woman that set him free, the marks of whiplashes made a crass painting on the canvas of his back. It is the Unsullied who lunges first, blade a metallic comet aimed right at Jon’s face. The northener deflects the strike with his own blade as his adversary’s weapon retreats only to come back from another angle in but a moment’s breath like a viper striking from below. This he sidesteps, Grey Worm’s blunt edge striking nothing but air where his head once stood, the Unsullied steps back himself with speed to avoid Jon’s own counter-attack, a horizontal slash meant for the ribs.

 

A boy cut young would never grow as strong or as tall as a common man, but Unsullied were not sought for their strength. They were mean, lean things and famed for their reflexes, their unbreakable discipline, complete lack of fear and high tolerance for pain. Unsullied were not trained for single combat, one to one outside their phalanxes they were not particularly better than other trained spearmen. But their officers were different, the men meant to lead the legions into battle had to be forged in even stronger fires by the masters of Slaver’s Bay.

 

Once, Daenerys vaguely recalled, Grey Worm had told her one of the ways in which officer candidates would be tested. A leader among slaves was both a useful and dangerous thing, they would need to survive battle, so that they could keep leading other formations. Their sense of empathy needed to be crushed, so that they could not lead their fellow slaves to rebellion. And so, the young officers-to-be, children at first, youths later, would be gathered in cadres of a dozen once a year and thrown into pits full of weapons. There they would do battle until only one remained or be slain by the archers watching them from above. The winners would be gathered once more the next year to repeat the process, again and again until a perfect killer remained.

 

Such as Warmaster Grey Worm.

 

Both men separated then met again in a flurry of metallic clangs, blades meeting with such ferocity that sparks flew from time to time. Dany watched transfixed, sparring as they were in what used to be Cersei’s old war-room, in the now cracked square where a painted map of Westeros had been. The Dragon Queen had wandered in after hearing the sound of swords clashing. She enjoyed walking through the ruins of the Red Keep, she also enjoyed drinking honeyed wine and so thought she could do both after the dull task of reading yet another stack of letters from lords pledging allegiance to the restored Targaryen dynasty.

 

But now _this_ was a bonus.

 

She had thought of calling them out, but so engrossed were they on their own little world of swordsmanship that both of them didn’t even notice her entering the premises. So, Daenerys reckoned she wouldn’t mind the little show. Laying herself comfortably on a couch and occasionally pouring herself some more sweet wine, now where did this one come from? She mused lazily as the clash of steel rang in the background, the West? She thinks, a bit of distaste worming itself into her heart at the thought of the Imp running around her keep.

 

Grey Worm fights like a machine, advancing and retreating with precise, practiced motions. The sword is considerably longer than the Unsullied shortsword he favors and he, like most of the Unsullied, is no swordsman but a spearman, he was in clear disadvantage. The Unsullied style of fighting shines through in his constant attempts to jab the blade into Jon, instead of using cutting or slashing motions, which he seems to seldom attempt, not used to westerosi swords. In contrast, Jon seemed to move like a dancer, front, back, left, right. Every single one of Jon’s strikes seemed to be designed to end a fight, he’s not a man to toy with his enemies, Dany muses. It was a good thing for Grey Worm to be such an expert in defensive combat.

 

Another stab, Jon sidesteps, deflecting the attack with his own blade as he spins to position himself on Grey Worm’s back, ready to strike down the eunuch from behind only for Grey Worm to drop his stance, rolling beneath the blow to rise up and face his opponent again. Their faces are fierce masks of stoic aggressiveness, focused and serious. Daenerys is not blind, she knows things between her betrothed and her greatest general have been _tense._ She imagines the impromptu sparring session to be a product of their disagreements, if she’s being honest, she does not much care for the circumstances that may have led to it, she’s content with watching it unfold.

 

They’re fast, her eyes dart from side to side as she sits up to watch the fight grow in intensity. Sometimes they’re like darting shadows, grey blurs in hand that occasionally make contact with such force that sparks fly everytime they separate. To fight is the most intimate thing two men can do and there’s no way emotions can be suppressed indefinitely. Where the former slave had once wore a mask of focused calm, his brow was now furrowed as anger shined clearly in his expression, frustrated in his inability to hit the westerosi. A grimacing expression has set itself in Jon’s face, like a wolf’s snarling visage. Growls and grunts fill the air alongside the clang of steel.

 

Grey Worm pounces on him like a panther, blade like a scorpion’s barbed tail as it descends in a flurry of motion. Jon moves like water, sparks dancing in his grey eyes as he parries and dodges, clearly on the defensive after experiencing the general’s renewed offensive. Daenerys watches on, transfixed on the muscles corded tight like tensed chains, sweat dropping with every movement, hot air with every pant as they retreated to advance upon each other again and again. The tourney sword was a bit on the short-side for Jon Snow, a man so accustomed to using his personal bastard sword that he constantly missed the nimble Unsullied by relying on length that wasn’t there.

 

It was...a bit refreshing, exciting to watch her Jon, such a gentle and brooding creature turned fierce and aggressive. She had seen him like this only briefly in desperate times or when their bodies were joined in certain circumstances. Ser Jorah once told her that there was a beast in every man and that it stirred when a sword was put in their hands. Looking at her betrothed now, snarling face and shining eyes, strands of raven hair escaping the knot in which it was tied as he moved with mortal accuracy, Dany was inclined to agree.

 

And seeing Jon’s beast lit up a fire in her core.

 

The White Wolf responded in kind, with every strike changing position and his angle of attack, hoping to make Greyworm misstep. The Unsullied’s perfect mechanical defense faltered under a storm delivered by a more skilled hand, frustration shining through his expression. Dany briefly worried about their ferocity, by the way those sword clashes sounded, a direct hit from either of them was probably going to break a bone or two, but she was way too enraptured in their dance of swords and with her own lover. There was tension in their hands and feet, some unspoken agreement was the only thing keeping them from punching or kicking the other.

 

The dance continued for a while more, Grey Worm delivering savage thrusts that never seemed to be able to hit his opponent as he retreated back to defend against Jon’s savage counter-attack as they both tried to outflank each other only to be blocked or evaded all together. By decree of some form of unsaid sparring duel Daenerys did not understand, both men refused to hit each other with anything but their shoulders, which they used to try to push the other one off balance. The last of their dance would come in one of such exchanges, both spinning off each other’s backs in an simultaneous attempt to get behind their adversary.

 

Jon was faster.

 

In a moment they were upon each other again, but when they both stopped suddenly, it was Jon’s blade the one on Grey Worm’s neck, the eunuch’s weapon poised below in preparation for a final stab he would never deliver.

 

He was defeated.

 

Panting, soaked in sweat, both men relaxed their stances, staring each other down with intensity. The northman’s sword remained where it was, pointed directly at the Warmaster’s throat. Even if there was no edge to it, it was clear to anyone watching that it wasn’t the point at all, both of these men were not done with their issues regarding each other. A beat passed, two, three, Grey Worm scowled, Jon’s head tilted sideways slightly, a silent challenge-

 

Then the sound of clapping hands resounded echoed through their improvised sparring ground. Both men startled out of their personal grievances, turning to face the amused visage of one Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. The blade which her betrothed had previously pointed towards her general found itself pointed in her direction out of sheer soldier’s instinct and Jon was quick to lower it in an almost panicked fashion, as if he were a child caught doing a naughty deed. Grey Worm limited himself to kneel in silence in the presence of his Mhysa, dutiful as only one born of the whip could be.

 

The Dragon Queen offered her general a fond smile as she approached him, from the corner of her eye she could already notice Jon tensing, shot up with adrenaline as he was, feigning calm in her presence was a particularly harder task. She would deal with her lover soon, alone, her core already a raging inferno.

 

“ _Ao've fought sȳrī, issa azantys”_

 

She proclaims in her mother tongue, with which she has spoken to her loyal legions for so long. The Unsullied general might not best her husband-to-be in single combat, but he was still her most loyal of servants. Her eyes gleam with a certain mischief as she eyes Jon sideways, who she can just _feel_ trying to extricate himself from the situation. Grey Worm rises to nod his head in thanks for his queen’s praise, his feud with Snow forgotten for a moment.  Dany offers him a gentle smile.

 

“Rest”

 

Is her command and Grey Worm obeys as if he were her willing slave instead of a freed man. Picking up the leather shirt he used to wear back at Meeren, now that combat is not an expected occurrence in the Red Keep and the belt with his sheathed shortsword. Dedicating but the briefest of scornful looks towards Jon, who glares right back as he departs.

 

Having dedicated too much attention to the retreating form of what the Targaryen supposed could be considered his rival now, Jon lost focus on her. Which gave Dany precisely the opening she herself needed. A little step forwards and she was in his space, the familiar scent of his sweat on her nostrils as she pressed a pale hand to his scarred chest. He tensed...and trembled, unable to feign resistance with blood running as fiercely through his veins. Daenerys had seen the beast lingering below the honorable visage and she wanted a taste of it.

 

Oh how she loved him, deeply, madly. Shorter than Drogo, less charismatic than Daario, but she fired up her insides like no man had managed, without doing anything but being himself. The Iron Throne was her destiny and to get it she would burn this wretched city all over again, but _him_. Jon made it all worthwhile, he was her greatest price, the most glorious of her victories. They would break the wheel, together, just as promised, he would be her warrior king and lead their armies to victory as they reshaped the world.

 

Nothing would stop them, nothing could.

 

“You also fought well” She whispers to him, watching with mirth as he can’t help but respond to her own desire. Jon himself can try to lie to her or himself, but his body was plenty of honest for the both of them. Once, not so long ago, his doubt stung in her heart as if a barbed arrow had lodged itself in it. His cold rejection felt like an affront that hurt her more deeply than any sword, stepping away from her when she needed his comfort. And for what? Some northern sense of honor? They were the Blood of the Dragon weren’t they? The thought brought a wider smile to her lips as she pressed herself to his bare torso, enjoying the feel of his skin. Targaryens were above the petty morals of lesser men, Viserys had always told her, he had been a snake, but Jon, Jon was a wolf and she would make him a dragon.

 

“Dany I…” He tried to come up with something, some errand, some excuse. His body could not lie to her and she had begun to enjoy this tug-of-war of theirs. Like a hunt, the difficulty of it just made the prize sweeter and yes, she mused as she eyed his lips hungrily, he was a rather handsome prey.

 

“I think a...reward may be in order”

 

Any protests he might have held were silenced by her lips connecting with his. There was a moment of brief doubt from his part, as it always came. A temporary paralysis in which neither his hands or his mouth knew what to do with the affections he was ashamed to accept but she _knew_ he desperately desired. Where she once might have stopped, she now pressed onwards, kissing him harder to drive her point home, fingers roaming his glistening chest. Daenerys Stormborn would not be denied, not by the lords, not by the people and especially not by _him._

 

He was hers, all of him.

 

There was a satisfied sigh she let out against his mouth as he finally responded, unable to fight against his own bubbling passion. Jon’s hands found her waist as he pressed her closer towards him, the clang of blunt steel hitting the floor echoing as he lets the tourney sword go like some nuisance, and Dany throws her arms around his neck, biting his lip as she resisted the urge to laugh with joy at her own victory.

 

Jon deepened the kiss himself, lost in the throes of  his own excitement. She missed this side of him, he was always so shy and so honorable, yet she knew he was capable of taking what he wanted. Just like in the ship, she missed that, nowadays she had to do all the work herself. His armed move to embrace her and Dany melted into his touch, eager for his taste and his warmth. This, this was right, fate, the last dragons, joined at last.

 

She wasn’t alone.

 

The thought sent thrills down her spine, a childish excitement in her veins. She needed him _now._

 

She separated briefly to catch the shine of his dark eyes in her own, the man letting out an indignant huff at the separation, having finally embraced the wolf inside him for the moment as he descended on her neck and the Mother of Dragon could do little but moan at his ministrations. Her own hands moved with zeal towards her dress, suddenly it felt too restricting, briefly she pondered about taking him to her chambers but decided that she was way too eager for such a thing. There was a seat nearby and she could ride.

 

And with that thought on the queen’s mind, Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight, alongside Arya Stark, decided to enter the scene.

 

Drifting towards the couch embroidered and dusty couch as they were, so lost in each other, the queen and her lover didn’t notice the intrusion at all until Davos caught sight of the man he served about to fuck the most powerful woman in the world.

 

“Oh gods!”

 

The old man cried out, Arya rolled her eyes at the sight and Jon separated from Dany as she were scalding to the touch. His sister did little else as lean against a column as she awaited for their undivided attention. Jon, much to his embarrassment did so immediately, caught like startled deer who’s just been shot like an arrow, straightening in a moment as he actively avoid looking at either Arya or Davos.

 

Jon was...dazed, a bit disoriented, a common occurrence when Dany got ahold of him. He wasn’t even sure anymore how he ended up sparring with Grey Worm, their paths somehow crossed while the Unsullied patrolled the Keep, there was a conversation, about what? Something trivial, remarks about drilling, defenses, things they both understood. Then they had gotten here somehow and there were swords on some trunk, mementos of Jaime Lannister, old King Robert? Then his mind shifted and all he could remember the adrenaline of fighting again.

 

He didn’t need to think while he fought, in the dance of swords, Jon was not Aegon, or even Jon himself. He was the sword, the clash of steel, the smell of blood, a ravenous wolf eager to bite, it was true, what he had told Dany upon the steps of Dragonstone. He didn’t like it, he never did, but now, in this accursed city, trapped as he was beneath the weight of love and duty, there was something liberating about clashing swords, even if it was with a man who seemed to despise him.

 

And then she was there, overpassing his defenses more deftly than any blade, getting into his head, his skin. Daenerys was in seconds everything of which his world consisted, its entirety spanning from the silver mane on top of her head to the tip of her toes, everything else became blurry, grey, cold, irrelevant in the face of the heat she radiated, indigo eyes trapping him and not letting him go.

 

Gods was he really so weak?

 

The question was unnecessary, he knew the answer, had known from the second she had asked him to join her. And speaking of Daenerys, she seemed tacitly disinterested in anything Davos or Arya may have come to offer. She had been in the middle of something, something of considerable importance to her and they were interrupted.

 

“Uh…Your Grace, My Lord” Was Davos’ tense greeting, the old knight seemed to be trying to balance the distress he felt for the present conundrum with the obvious amusement catching Jon like this caused him, politely trying to look away but also seemingly holding back laughter. “I’m afraid we have…” Seaworth seemed to ponder for a moment, fishing for the right word.

 

“Visits”

 

Jon shot him a quizzical look. Visits? No one in the city even dared to come close to the Red Keep except Arya, Davos or Dany’s own armies. Not even Lady Lemore with the Faithful poised behind her had deemed it wise to visit the blackened ruins of the fortress Maegor the Cruel had once erected uninvited. Meanwhile the Queen couldn’t look less interested in whoever this visitor was, still clinging to her lover’s neck, lips lazily trailing the skin of his throat. The soft contact made Aegon flinch, skin burning under her touch, hair a disheveled mess threatening to spill out of her braid, the black dress she so usually wore now partially undone at the front, exposing some of her milky flesh beneath.

 

Finally with a sigh that screamed exasperation, Daenerys shot a look behind her as Arya crossed her arms and glared right back. The She-Wolf had the same eyes as her lover but Jon could tell that there was absolutely no fondness to be found for the woman each pair of eyes what looking at. The tension was palpable and if looks could kill, the northerner wasn’t sure who would be in worse shape at this point.

 

Aegon looked back at the Onion Night, pleading. The man himself seemed to be disturbed by the silent contest the women in the room were having. Clearing his throat in a vain attempt to distract everyone present, Davos continued.

 

“One Ser Bronn of the Blackwater has come seeking audience with Her Grace…”

 

Daenerys contented herself with kissing his chin, as days passes she only turned bolder in her displays of love. Back in Winterfell, even before their split, their love was reserved for the confines of intimacy. Now she did not seem to mind where, in what circumstances or in what company they where, as if marking her territory.

 

“And why would we receive some Crownlands knight?”

 

She asked, impassive, in jarring opposition to her loving disposition towards her betrothed. Jon’s eyes widened at the name, Tyrion’s words echoing in his ears. The Imp had given him cryptic pieces of information about a sellsword-turned-knight called Bronn, whom he had called “the most reliable man this side of the Narrow Sea, provided the price was right” and given very particular recommendations, particularly about what ancient castle should be granted to him, for reasons that continued to elude the future king’s grasp.

 

_You’re going to need swords Bastard and I’m offering you my best one. Always pay in advance and make sure to pay more than everyone else…_

 

He furrowed his brow.

 

“He well…”

 

Once again, the old Knight seemed not to be able to find the correct words to use in the situation as Jon pressed with questioning eyes. Rolling her eyes, Arya decided to finish wording it for him.

 

“He’s got another bloody sellsword army”

 

She relays crassly, never having been much for ceremony as she walks over to a corner in the room, retrieving a grey piece of something from the ground that Jon recognizes as his grey undershirt. The revelation brings pause to the Queen, who drums her fingers on her lover’s shoulders for a moment, deciding whether she should be intrigued or angry. At last, with a groan of utmost frustration, Daenerys pries herself off him as she walks off to recover the half-finished glass of wine she had been nursing before as she fixed the front of her dress, leaving behind a dazed, but slightly relieved Jon behind.

 

He catches the retreating figure of his queen as his shirt hits him on the face, Arya shoots him a shrug and an empty gaze as she follows suit and Davos offers him an apologetic smile as he glanced nervously at Dany, still unnerved by her presence.

 

“Well then?” His sister and his advisor have left, leaving Dany waiting expectantly near the entrance. The glow in her lilac eyes tells him that their business here is very much not over.

 

He swallows, tightening his grip on the shirt he’s about to put on again.

 

Ser Bronn of the Blackwater is...not what he was expecting. Tyrion had described him as a former sellsword turned knight, a not so rare occurrence in times when knights died like flies and lords thirsted for more spears. By virtue of vanity perhaps or his distaste for men who could resort so low as to sell their own blades, Jon expected some brute or a pompous man.

 

Bronn was neither, a lean older gentleman, dressed in rough leathers rather than silks or armor, with a thin sword strapped to his hip. Bright blue eyes, framed a sun-kissed face, the dark hair slicked back, goatee framing the little satisfied smile that seemed to be a permanent part of the man’s expression.

 

As it turned out, the man _had_ brought an army, an impressive thing, considering it was exclusively made of sellswords, outlaws and freeriders. Eight thousand men, give or take, with about a thousand riders, with a huge bag of gold Ser Bronn had somehow seemingly managed to put every single hired sword in Westeros under his command and marched them to southwards while the North and the Queen’s armies marched south to reclaim the Crownlands and the Throne.

 

It almost matched the host of nine thousand of Northmen and Vale knights Jon and Arya commanded but was still dwarfed by the 40 thousand strong army Her Majesty Daenerys Targaryen still had at her orders. But armed men was not the only thing he had brought, caravans of grains and foodstuffs followed him from the Reach, an offering, the man said. The smallfolk below were already chanting his name, according to Arya.

 

They convene on Maegor’s Holdfast, the place that resisted Drogon’s onslaught the most, coming out of the Burning relatively unscathed. Some room with a long table, where they sit in a manner eerily similar to what Jon has read a small council meeting looks like. A fire crackles, a window offers a view of the ruined city below, grey and full of ash, no longer smoking, at the very least. Aegon positions himself next to the queen, who herself sits graciously on the far end of the table, right in the opposite direction of their smug visitor, as Davos takes an awkward seat next to Jon, eyeing the man with unsure eyes.

 

Davos was not one to judge a man by his occupation, he himself had been a sellsail once, a smuggler, until Stannis Baratheon had risen him from his station for the low price of his fingertips. He had lost the fingers, long ago, in the Battle of the Blackwater, where his son had also perished and this man had supposedly risen from his own station. The Onion Knight was keenly aware that this man and him probably stood on opposite sides in that fateful battle. But he had worked with Tyrion, who’s plan had burned down Stannis’ ships and sent his son to a fiery death, if he could forgive the Imp for that, perhaps he may be also able to work with this one.

 

The old man flexed his hand, phantom pain running through fingers that weren’t there anymore as he eyed Jon and the thinly veiled distrust in his eyes, accompanied by...something else, recognition but not quite that.

 

“Have I seen you before?”

 

The Dragon Queen’s voice breaks through the silence like a well-sharpened blade, her smile is innocent-looking, like a maid’s, but her eyes betray her own promise of violence. Fingers crossed as she rested her chin on the back of her hands in a relaxed motion, Daenerys squinted a bit to appreciate the older man’s face. To his credit, Bronn maintained an impressive mask of serenity, even though Jon could tell that at least, he, remembered the Dragon Queen well enough from somewhere.

 

“Can’t say so, no”

 

Is the man’s response, Flea Bottom accent shining through, smiling the smug smile he’s been sporting the second Grey Worm escorted him to the meeting. On the other side of the room, both the Warmaster and Arya guard the door. One with unflinching pose, the other resting her back on the wall, hand casually on the pommel of her Needle with the swagger of a braavosi Bravo.

 

Jon’s gaze surveyed the man again and again. Why should this man be granted Highgarden and all the powers that came with it. He knew the answer Tyrion would tell him, that he needed influence to counter Dany’s, that Aegon Targaryen needed men loyal to him, not the Breaker of Chains. And to Jon’s own shame, he already found himself betraying his own nature, thinking of ways to convince Dany to take the knight into their circle.

 

Thinking like an imp instead of a wolf or a dragon.

 

There had to be a reason, Jon mused, this man was somehow Tyrion’s own idea of helping him...or helping himself? The White Wolf wasn’t sure anymore of who was supposed to be ally and who foe and where exactly he was supposed to fit in this mess. There was an offer to be made and reasons to be explained.

 

“You come here” The Queen’s voice is demanding yet sweet at the same time “with an army at your heel, why?” Sometimes, Jon had to be reminded that it is she who is the actual politician. Daenerys had ruled over Slaver’s Bay and smashed the power of the Masters on her own account, liberating it's enslaved people. Then, instead of leaving a wrecked ruin behind to be claimed back by its oppressors, she had stayed and ruled over people not her own. She had done out of a desire to help the downtrodden and the chained, while Jon himself had to be dragged and threatened to reclaim the home of his family (?) from a madman who would put an arrow through Rickon’s heart. Despite her recent...experiences with fire and blood, the Dragon Queen was still very much capable of engaging in diplomacy, there was something this man wanted and she would know it.

 

“Also came with a bunch of food for ya lot” The crass man mentions off-handedly as Dany narrows her lilac gaze at his sellsword audacity “I came to offer the swords!” Bronn offers as if pitching a deal, the slight smirk never leaves his face and it elicits a raised eyebrow from both Davos and the queen.

 

“We thank you then, for your offer, the people of King’s Landing will enjoy the gift you’ve brought them” Daenerys replied, diplomatically, her own smile was a sweet, thin thing contrasted by the intensity of her gaze “But I think you’ve been able to look for yourself that we’re not in dire need of any more swords”

 

As if to confirm her words, Drogon’s monstrous roar echoes through the air, as it often does when the Dragon decides to stop resting on one of the ruined towers and take flight to cause a short-lived mass panic among the populace below as his shadow overflows the City of Ash.That seemed to be finally the one thing that managed to put the man out of his own comfort, rapidly straightening on his chair to gaze out through the window at the image of the last dragon alive in the world as it flew over the very city it had destroyed.

 

There was something Jon could recognize in his eye, the sort of fear men only know after having experienced the sight of dragonflame.

 

Where did Tyrion find this man?

 

“Majestic, isn’t he?”

 

The Dragon Queen asks, proud as only a mother could be and warning as only a conqueror could.

 

“Bloody impressive, for sure”

 

Ser Bronn replied flatly as he turns to face them again. The Onion Knight looked between the monarch he rightly feared and the man who would join her in matrimony soon enough. He had been Hand to King Stannis Baratheon, might as well do something else as sit on the table.

 

“Well you’ve heard Her Grace” Davos spoke plainly to the man, they came from similar places, fake posturing would do neither of them any favors. “You came here looking for something. What is it?”

 

The former sellsword seemed to chew on his own words, considering how to word the demand he was about to make to the woman with the most powerful army in the world. It had been already a miracle that she hadn’t been able to recognize him despite being Bronn the one who speared her precious beast on Goldroad as it made quick work of Jaime Lannister’s army alongside her screamer hordes.

 

But they owed him this. The dwarf had assured him Snow would make sure Bronn got what was owed to him.

 

“I want Highgarden” Bronn admits, shrugging.

 

Everyone in the room except Aegon, who already knew it and Grey Worm, who doesn’t care much about westerosi castles unless ordered to take them, widen their eyes in appropriate surprise.

 

“And why should we give it to you?”

 

Jon of all people responds, stunning her lover for just a second as she arches an eyebrow his way. Slightly amused at his decision to involve himself in matters he would usually only discuss with her in private. He supposed it was natural for her to be surprised, despite her teasing about his coming kingship, Jon was very much not the type to openly question, challenge or even back her authority in public, he nodded when he needed to and needled her as much as was needed to affect her decision on certain matters. But the final choice was always hers...and it still was. A claim was nothing without force and she had all the force she needed and more, but she seemed...content, to consider that Jon spoke of a _them._

 

Together, she had said.

 

“I’m offering you the Reach” The crass knight replies as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. The silence that follows is pressing enough for the former mercenary to know he should elaborate.

 

“See while you were…” a slight pause, sensitive issue, right wording is key “... _securing_ your rightful throne. I figured that well, shit, I should do my service to the realm as well”

 

Bronn gesticulates like an experienced salesman, confident in his own words and the sale he’s pitching. Jon can’t help but suspect him and Dany can’t help but be slightly amused by his sellsword charms, almost as if the man before her was some strange combination between her Old Bear Jorah Mormont and the dashing rogue that was Daario Naharis.

 

“I had money and there were plenty of _enterprising_ men to embark on a little unofficial mission for the Crown”

 

“For the Crown was it?” Dany prods, the edges of a laugh in her tone, Jon eyes her carefully. It is better for her to be amused than slighted.

 

“For the Crown! The Tyrells were your allies weren’t they? Betrayed by their own bannermen the second the Kingslayer makes a little maneuver. Obviously, I figured, they couldn’t be trusted to be loyal to their Queen if they couldn’t keep loyal to their Lady Paramount”

 

It is obvious that his motivation is a complete and utter lie, but if he’s implying what Jon thinks he’s implying, this man is telling them that he just secured the entire Reach for House Targaryen. With how depleted the Reach was in the War of the Five Kings and the numbers he’s commanding, it dawned on the king-to-be that the former sellsword’s claim is perfectly plausible and was backed by the caravans of grain and barley he had brought with him. A mobile enough force could have subdued the surviving lords of the Reach, with the notable exception mayhaps, of the Redwynes with their impressive fleet and the Hightowers, who guarded the Citadel.

 

“And so, I’ve heard of Her Majesty’s…” A glint in the eye, a crooked smile “Generosity. All I ask is one castle, one title. For services rendered in honor of Her Grace Queen Daenerys Targaryen, aye?”

 

The Queen acknowledged limited herself to cocking her head to the side slightly. Empty expression on the beautiful face. The beginnings of a smile forming as it widened into a more bemused expression. Her pale fingers drummed on the table, once, twice, thrice.

 

“What will the lords say of me if I appoint but a lowly knight to the highest station in the Reach?”

 

She asked, like an innocent maid. There would be upheaval, from lords and smallfolk alike, a castle where kings had once reigned, granted to some uppity mercenary who had dared to aim beyond his birthright to work or starve for those born of a lineage. They would call her disrespectful of their ways and traditions, an insult to all noble houses of the Reach, a mad queen (despite her very well knowing what they already whispered).

 

There was a sudden anger in Bronn’s blue eyes as he leaned forward.

 

“You care bout’ what those fuckers say?” He pressed, fangs baring “You are a conqueror, you’ve taken this city haven’t ya? Let them cry out in despair. I’ve taken the Reach and ridden up here to give it to you while they hide behind their walls and their gardens. Plotting”

 

Despite not knowing her, he presses on every cord that matters with Daenerys. Her distrust for the westerosi lords and her pride as a conqueror. And yet...Jon can see that she isn’t convinced, the Lord of Winterfell himself managed to get her to pardon Tyrion on the grounds that subduing the Westerlands would be detrimental to their rule. And the possible troubles this man could bring them as Lord Paramount of the Reach could far outweigh the benefits.

 

But…

 

_You’re going to need swords…_

 

Gods damn you Tyrion Lannister.

 

Movement under the table, Aegon’s scarred hand grasping her pale fingers. To her credit, Dany doesn’t react, visibly. She squeezes his hand back as she looks at him in expectant silence. He knows he’s exploiting another kind of love, a purer one, her desire to be accepted and to have a home and someone to confide in.

 

His own behavior disgusts him.

 

“This lords of the Reach refused to fight for your when called upon” Jon worded carefully, looking into her eyes, from the corner of his own vision he could catch Arya raising an eyebrow and Bronn’s own grin widening at what he could already feel was his victory.

 

“This man has not” Is Aegon’s verdict and there’s a beat of silence before Dany smiles again, brighter.

 

The dwarf and the sellsword meet again upon a ruined staircase, the view of the ash-filled city before them, stretching into the horizon. Night has fallen, the bright moon casting a strange silver shine to the ruins. To Bronn this is but the culmination of promises long given to him, to Tyrion, the start of a new set of schemes the likes of which he thought he was over with.

 

“Satisfied with your rewards?”

 

“Damn right I am”

 

“I did say that I always pay my debts”

 

They share a look, they’ve been a lot of things to each other, sellsword and contractor, lord and knight, friends, enemies. But they laugh at the absurdity of it all in the same way they laughed at silly jokes once shared in Tyrion’s solar. It _is_ absurd, every part of it, the Imp who should have died alongside his own mother and the killer raised to Great Lord. The thrice damned mercenary was right wasn’t he? All great houses started like that, with a fucker good at killing.

 

The dwarf’s mismatched eyes shine in the dark, the green one shimmering like an emerald in the shadows. They’re all in the Great Game now and it is terrifying.

 

“Ready to do me another favor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh I'm not sure about this one. Took me a couple of days, did it in cycles of waning and rising ideas and Iunno it just feels...sloppy to me, but y'all be the judge of it. I'm of course again concerned about the dialogue parts and particularly how I wrote Bronn. It occurs to me that the story probably features too much a noble Jon and a mad Dany. Which at this point in time is sort of the point, considering where these characters are mentally right now, but it is by no way my intentions to deliver these characters in an entirely one-dimensional way.
> 
> Even though I may not have the skill to really write them well. I wanna convey the sense that while Jon is still very much an honorable man, the sorts of decisions he has to make in King's Landing and the new reality he finds himself in require of him to change in both the way he takes choices and the way he thinks. There's a turmoil of Jon needing to shed his own Jon persona and embrace Aegon to survive in the game they're playing now, which I try to conceptualize through the constant change of names Aegon and Jon in an attempt to convey his inner confusion regarding his identity. 
> 
> As for Dany, I did put Dark Dany in the tags, so any Dany fans forgive me, but I'm not going to be particularly gentle. This is a woman who burned a city with half a million people in it out of spite and I want to reflect, even in the scope of my limited capacity, on the sort of person she has become to justify those choices and the way the choice itself and its results affect her. There is more to this Dany I'm writing than the Mad Queen persona I've shown, but cut me some slack, I'm not Martin.


	5. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon reflects on Dany's cause, Daenerys reflects on her own guilt and players begin to set up their moves.

It is in the warm moments that followed their sex that Dany talks about reform. 

 

Basking, hair loose and smiling as they held onto each other, Daenerys eyes would lit up in a way he rarely saw when she allowed herself to be liberated from the present to reflect upon the better future that she dreamed of, a World of Mercy, as they called it. A way of living where the weak didn’t need to be trampled underfoot and a man’s freedom was not a thing to be arbitrarily taken. A world where babes need not to be put to the sword and girls need not to be sold like cattle. 

 

Hair a mess, sweaty and with Jon’s seed still sticky on her thigh she would gesticulate wildly in bed, talking in a passionate tone that she never showed beyond the bounds of their own intimacy. A kingdom-wide reserve of grain to withstand famine and winter, so that the people need not go hungry, the abolishment of the levy system, so that commoners may not be dragged into senseless wars by their lords, a reformation to marriage and betrothal laws, so a brother could never again sell their sister in exchange of armies and lands. 

 

Dany was passionate about Dorne and their inheritance laws, calling out for something similar for the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. She proclaimed herself as living proof that their ancestral patriarchal were useless and that a woman could conquer and rule as well as any man. She talked of laws to protect not only highborn maids, but all women, on all strata, to outlaw the practice of rape and pillage in war times by punishing it with death, to enforce protections and assurances to whores and other such outcasts. 

 

Her apparent disregard for the people of the City of Ash could lead one to assume that she had no love at all for commoners. But she reminded Jon that she was a Queen of the Weak, the Outcasts and all those without power to protect themselves. What spurned Daenerys forward, was the desire to spare people of a life they had no control over, like she had experienced under the authority of her brother Viserys. Slaves, women, peasants, she cared far more for these people than any sort of nobility rights and honors.

 

And yet-

 

Jon reflected that when he tried to get her involved in his own efforts to alleviate the pain of the survivors, Dany shut down completely. Desiring to avoid the argument altogether, she kissed him, pressing herself against him to drown a conversation too uncomfortable to have in more carnal pursuits. Aegon worried that she might have grown to hate the people below, who had refused to rebel against the tyrant that had taken so much from them. Whether she did or not, Dany did not say, did not want to say and it was not in the man’s power to pry such an answer out of her. 

 

Sometimes they would take some furs and make love on one of the ruined towers and bask under the starlight. And Dany would trace essosi constellations in the sky as Jon traced little circles on her belly. She talked a lot about Essos too, with a yearning of a home she was not supposed to call home. This land was supposed to be her home but all Westeros and Daenerys seemed to be capable of was to come at odds with each other. She talked fondly of the freedmen in Dragon’s Bay and of a curious council the general she had left behind was supposed to enforce in her absence. There was a deep scorn in her voice when she talked of the Slavers, still lurking in New Ghis, eager to set her people in chains again. Spite manifested itself clearly in her voice as she spoke of Volantis and their patronage to the ghiscari alongside disgust for the almost constant presence of slavery in essosi society. 

 

Jon responded with nods and ayes and kisses, smiling at her enthusiasm. He was relearning how to be at ease with the joining of their bodies again. When they were alone like this, it was like an iron mask fell off her face, revealing the woman he had fallen in love with instead of the queen he had chosen to follow. There was an urgency in everything she did outside the bounds of their privacy, a drive to remain on top and in control of every situation that could spiral out of control. Even their lovemaking was different then, more frantic, as if she was consuming him instead of loving him. In the absence of Tyrion or Missandei, the role of confidant had fallen upon Aegon, but still, there were secrets dark enough behind her eyes that she refused to share them with arguably the only person she still trusted besides her Warmaster.

 

It was moments like this which reminded him why he had believed in her in the first place. He had once told her that they would grow to believe in her and he still hoped that, even after, even after-

 

(The fire and the blood and the ashes and the screams. Blackened limbs piled together into a mess that collapsed in a heap of ash that the wind carried away along with the smell of death. Stone breaking under intense heat, wildfire caches jumping into the air in tongues of green flame. Death, so much death-)

 

There are moments in which she feels guilty. 

 

She will walk the steps of the fortress her ancestors had erected and she had deemed it fit to tear down. Then she will gaze upon the City of the Conqueror, reduced to ash and blackened stone. And then she will feel something crawling up in her belly, clawing its way out through her body and nestle itself in her throat. It’s like a scream she can’t let out, a word she cannot mutter.

 

Things were not always like this, she knows. Had she not said that she would not be a Queen of Ashes? But that was before the Dead and the betrayals, before Varys tried to have her killed and she watched as Rhaegal fell from the sky with a bolt through his eyes, before she failed in all her promises to Missandei and allowed her to die in chains. This city and the woman who had ruled over it had taken too much from her. 

 

And the people in it were the same ones who cheered for Euron Greyjoy as he dragged Yara, Ellaria Sand and the Sand Snakes through their streets. The same people that supposedly lived in fear of her, refused to take action and fight as she used them as human shields. And she had, had taken them into the fortress and challenged Dany’s mercy.

 

The bells had rung. 

 

They rang and rang and she…

 

And she…

 

(Fire, hot and scalding and absolute. The beating of black wings and the distant sound as she howled something Dracarys Dracarys Dracarys-)

 

All she knew was that the world had turned red. She had lost everything, everyone and these people refused to take her in as their savior and cowered in fear. It was...not enough, she could not forget, she could not forgive. There was power beneath her, more power than any woman in the world could wield, she was fire and blood, she was the dragon. 

 

If it could not be love...then it would be fear.

 

When it was over and the world stopped being a red mess of her own rage. Her mind could not focus on anything else but the prize, she could not afford to think of anything else. If she looked back she was lost, she always told herself, the mantra had always carried her through hardship and it would do so again. Jon’s accusatory tone bit into her in her memories, even as she held onto victory for support. Had his rejection not been enough? Did she not need to take her birthright by force when there were forces all around them, seeking to use him as a puppet to oust her of a throne that wasn’t even hers yet?

 

Dany did not want to think about the memory of the stones crumbling on top of bodies, did not want to remember the screams that rose into the sky as Drogon’s fire rained down upon faceless masses. It was better if she could not see their faces, then it was something akin to stepping on ants. 

 

But they hadn’t been ants, they had been people. 

 

Little children, Jon had screamed in her face and in her dreams, she saw the blackened bones of the first girl Drogon had ever burned, back in Mereen. Back then it had been enough for her to cage her children, wracked with guilt as she was. And now, in the dead of the night, the girl followed her in dreams. A blackened thing that rose and crawled towards her like a wight, multiplying itself in the shadows until they were half a million shambling corpses in the dark, screeching, tearing her apart. 

 

Blue eyes gleamed in the shadows.

 

And she woke, sweating and panting to face a worried looking Jon. But she could not admit such a thing, to confess it would be to acknowledge that it had been a mistake, it would confirm that she had committed an irredeemable act and that she was-

 

She was not her father. 

 

She was  _ not.  _

 

**SHE WAS NOT MAD**

 

Was it really so hard to understand the necessity of violence when facing the Wheel that ran the world? She had not talked the Masters into abandoning slavery, she had burned them. For a new world to be born, the old one and all those clinging onto it had to perish, because they could not hide behind small mercies. 

 

Her father had been a cruel little man. His madness had condemned him and his family, she was not the end of her line, she was its new start. History would absolve her, Daenerys would not be known for burning down the old world but for building up the new one. And while the queen knew what she needed to do, the girl who had held the charred bones of a child did not and the guilt ate at her heart. 

 

So she hid in her strength, in her throne and in Jon’s body. If she ever looked back, she was lost. So she would never look back, she could not afford regret or second guessing, all rulers were the butchers...or the meat. And enough crows were circling around her already as if she was already carrion. Dany could not bear the thought of facing the soot-covered survivors and watch them stare at her with hate in their eyes, all this country had to offer her was hate and she had never wanted to be hated. 

 

She had always wanted to be loved and accepted. 

 

All of her friends were dead. Doreah had betrayed her, Barristan was dead, Daario was a sea way in Mereen, Jorah was dead, Tyrion and Varys had betrayed her as well; and Grey Worm knew nothing other than service now that Missandei was dead. Dany clinged onto the man who still loved her, as hesitant as he was, like driftwood in a sea of pain. There was comfort in his touch and in his words, in the reassurance that there was someone who could still believe in her vision of the world and offer her a home inside their hearts.

 

It was destiny, she was sure of it.

 

And no one was going to deny her destiny. She could not afford such a thing. 

 

So she would reign and she would break the thrice damned wheel. And if it was fear the way it had to be.

 

Then it would be fear. 

 

Lord Paxter Redwyne, Lord of Arbor, was exceptionally angry. Years of careful planning and strenuous alliances had been thrown aside like toys off a shelf with the simple decree of a foreign queen with an exotic pet. Well, pet was not exactly the name he would use, he had seen the monster overfly the bay as his fleet approached. Stories had managed to travel even down to the Arbor, of how the Dragon Queen had reduced Euron Greyjoy’s Iron Fleet to blackened splinters. 

 

And there was...proof, if the dragon wasn’t enough, Pieces of burnt driftwood lingered, the beaches and rocks of the bay littered with the rusty fragments of Queen Cersei’s Scorpions and...bodies, black things, half bone, half ash that had managed to remain whole enough to drift ashore. Paxter was here not to fight, he had nothing that could kill a dragon and furthermore, there was nothing to conquer in King’s Landing. The city was more ash than stone now, surrounded by an ever increasing ring of military camps and populated by what remained of its fearful populace. 

 

No, he was here to swear fealty, Paxter was an old man, pushing his mid-50s, most of his hair had already fallen off, leaving a pale bald head behind with a few tufts of red hair hanging at the back, slicked back. His wrinkled face was a hard thing, more prone to frowning then smiling, a pair of green-golden eyes shined with both old cunning and new frustration. Lord Redwyne had little to be happy for, the Tyrells had been rightfully stomped for playing with fire and he and Hightower had been ready to use the opportunity to pull a Robb Stark and crown the Old Man King of the Reach. Leyton Hightower has not left his Tower for over a decade, with his mad maid at his ear, but he was still somewhat ambitious, in his strange, maester ways. As his Hand, Paxter and House Redwyne could have enjoyed an era of unprecedented influence and power, their new reign defended by the Kingdom’s need for Reach crops and essosi sellswords, if it proved necessary. The dornish had managed to down dragons in days long past, why wouldn’t they?

 

But those plans were ash now, Lord Paxton reminded himself as he walked briskly through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, dressed in mail and a grape purple tunic, hand tightly gripping the sword on his hip. The least damaged part of the Keep being used now to house the highborn guests, if they so desired, had said that one upstart knight, Davos Seaworth, that received him. The Queen and the...Prince, if the whispers where to be believed, had not bothered to show their faces, although Paxter had been able to catch a glimpse of the young couple overlooking the ruined city, perched from a broken tower. 

 

And speaking of upstart knights…

 

“Ah! My good Lord Redwyne…”

 

The whoring bastard! 

 

“Spare me your formalities Blackwater”

 

Bronn smile does nothing but widen itself, a fact that angered the southron lord to no end. He had fallen upon them like a phantom, with what seemed like every surviving sellsword, freerider and corsair the continent still had to offer. Thousands of dragons were a lot of money to pass around, Bronn himself would say, he had demanded an advanced payment from the mad cunt that was Cersei and her strange little Hand, then made what was probably going to be the second biggest bet in his life if the Imp had any say in it. 

 

He had been bloody lucky that Cersei managed to be such a spiteful woman with braavosi gold to drown in.

 

“You must be satisfied” Lord Paxton hisses, he, the head of a family who once were kings, reduced to a bannerman of some opportunistic snake with a sword. “Quite a long way for a common sellsword”

 

Bronn shrugs, unimpressed. Without bothering to get up from his seat, hand grasping an apple, surrounded by mercenary guards dressed in unadorned leathers and mail, grasping long axes.  

 

“Quite a long way for some perfumed boy-lover” 

 

Lord Redwyne nearly unsheathes his blade to punish his audacity, but abates as the guards step forward. How dare they block the path of a high born-

 

“Now Blackwater” Bronn muses aloud, not even bothering to look at the man whose plans he has ruined “That’s not the proper name anymore, y’know. Tis Lord Firebolt now, Lord of Highgarden and Lord Paramount of the Reach. Got a sigil and everything”

 

The grin he offers the older man causes nothing but seething rage. If only they had never followed any Baratheons, their forces would have never been depleted for such a opportunistic dog to exploit the window that was his to take. Some lyseni Pirate Lord called Salladhor Saan had set half of his beloved Redwyne fleet alight before being able to muster it and blockaded the Arbor while the Bastard of Driftmark held the much smaller Hightower fleet at bay. The Old Man in the Tower would never move as long as his beloved Starry Sept was in danger and so Bronn was able to ride down upon all the lesser Lords Paxter himself had been preparing himself to rule or submit to his own authority. 

 

He had been outfoxed by some unknown player and it frustrated him to no end. 

 

“Wonder why you even bothered to bring your precious ships” the newly-appointed lord sneered, victorious “Couldn’t face me and you think you can face a dragon”. 

 

Lord Paxton offered only a scowl. 

 

“I came to show the Queen the strength of the Reach”

 

He mutters, dignified. Bronn gets up, throwing the apple in the air occasionally to catch it again. 

 

“You keep doing that milord, but take care-” the former sellsword interrupts himself, biting into the apple with vigorous zeal as his blue eyes meet intently with Paxter’s own. “New world’s coming-” he mutters between bites, offering a cocksure smile as he swallows. 

 

“And it doesn’t have room for old entitled cunts like you in it” 

 

The man sitting across Tyrion was not particularly happy to see him. Green eyes framed by a face almost completely obscured by long yellow-golden shaggy hair and a bristling beard, looked at him with contempt. The Imp and Ser Devan Lannister, who sat across him in his gold-scarlet Lannister armor, may have been cousins, but there was surely no true love lost between them. Tyrion remembered Devan as one of the more jovial Lannisters, but it seemed as if years of war and Tyrion’s old betrayal to the House had considerably soured his mood.

 

Devan may just be a knight and really a minor Lannister compared to Tyrion’s own claim, but he was effectively the one commanding what remained of Tywin’s army and as such, the de-facto Warden of the West, regardless of Tyrion’s now legal usage of the title. Now he wondered how long it would take to-

 

“You killed uncle Tywin”

 

There it was. The dwarf sighed, half annoyed at still having to deal with the ramifications of killing a man who never held anything but contempt for him. Tywin had always known that it was Tyrion, not Jaime or Cersei, who has his son, his  _ true _ son. And now he was still alive and Tywin lied dead, once considered the most powerful man in all of Westeros. 

 

“Yes, I did” he answered calmly, chugging some wine from his cup. “With a crossbow I might add”

 

“I should cut you where you stand” 

 

Tyrion shows him nothing but a mask of disinterest, playing around with his cup of wine. His identity as a dwarf had always made him an outcast, especially among his family. A Lannister’s scorn is not unfamiliar for him, but he has no time to waste in useless grudges, kinslaying or no. There’s politics that need doing, he’s playing the long game now, no less dangerous than before. 

 

“Mayhaps, but I’m your Lord Warden now, cousin, whether you like it or not” He offers with a shrug, not really having the energy to pretend to be smug. “Our Queen has granted us Lannisters... _ mercy”  _ He can’t help but spit the word, still scornful, resentful for the city’s fate. Many would call him ingrateful and he was, he had been scared but ready to face fate. He was alive by Jon’s grace...or Aegon, whatever the boy might fancy himself as. And now perhaps he owed it to the young man to make sure he didn’t end like poor old Eddard Stark, picked apart by carrion, headless. 

 

It was going to be a long game and he might hate him afterwards. But in the end-

 

No reason to dream ahead when the future was not yet secured. 

 

“We must press our chances, rebuild the army, invest in new trades, look for new veins” 

 

Devan’s eyes are pits of scorn, this one was going to be a pain in his ass, Tyrion could already feel it. Downing the rest of his cup in one go and refilling it, the Imp’s green eye shimmered as he gave his cousin a look that temporarily stunned Devan, it was as if seeing uncle Tywin again, with his quiet authority. 

 

“You will ensure the army’s loyalty and the lord’s compliance. Then we will return to Casterly Rock and work on seeking ways to make money. Our immediate survival very much depends on our Goldroad. Do you understand, cousin?”

 

A stubborn pause. 

 

“Do you?”

 

Another pause, a hesitant nod. He would comply, Tyrion knew, every Lannister soldier in the country had at least heard of Goldroad or King’s Landing, they knew the power of dragons and Devan was no hero. Daenerys would set the rules for this board, the former Hand mused, and he would need time to learn its rules and loopholes. But he would learn and adapt, he was a survivor, if anything else. 

 

And he had some letters to write as well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, thanks for all your feedback again. This one I wrote in a much more consistent bout of inspiration so I feel a bit better about it. Some have remarked that I've been unjust to Dany's character and I have been, I do want take the Mad Queen approach but I've been overly demonizing her to develop Jon's own angst, which is a concern I'm trying to address. 
> 
> About some of you wondering about Tyrion, he is definitely not to be trusted, by Dany at least. Him being spared was sort of to prove a point about how Jon is still naive and how Dany at this point is emotionally unstable and dependent on Jon, which leads to his huge influence on her decisions. The choice may come to bite them both back in the ass. 
> 
> Also regarding Bronn, I'm not backpedaling on that one. I actually didn't dislike that part of the finale and I think that precisely Bronn, the unrelenting opportunist managing to get to the very top reflects on some of the show's and book's elements. That nice people don't always get to the top, assholes ready to what's necessary to get power do and Bronn is one massive asshole. 
> 
> One thing I think I've failed to address until now is that despite her approach to things, Dany's own objectives are well-intentioned. She wants to help people, albeit on her own terms and the show I think is very ambiguous about what sort of world the Dragon Queen wants to build. She advocates for the rights of the masses and the downtrodden, heavily opposes slavery and cruelty towards the humble. Due to contextual constraints, she cannot envision this new world without a monarchy that she herself and her dynasty will lead. Which kinda proves that she doesn't want to get rid of the westerosi aristocracy or the convert the Kingdoms into a selective monarchy.

**Author's Note:**

> So uhhh, I have no idea what I'm doing. I didn't precisely hate the end. But it left me with so many mixed feelings and I'm just like, really unsatisfied with how they handled Jon these past 2 seasons, particularly this one. I mean, you have a King, the best sword in all of Westeros and a secret heir to the Iron Throne by the end of Season 6 and they somehow render it all pointless.
> 
> The War for the Dawn and for the Throne left me definitely disappointed and I intend to somehow remedy that not by doing a fix but by simply doing a little nudge there and moving forward still.


End file.
